Death of a Different Color
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Moriarty's network ensured that Sherlock really did die that day at Bart's, despite his and Mycroft's plan to fake his death. But John discovers something remarkable via an old friend. Post TRF
1. Chapter 1

Death of a Different Color

Prologue

Dr. John Watson closed the door of his flat behind him, and he wandered through the sitting room towards the kitchen, shrugging his coat off as he went. He filled the kettle with water and turned it on, moving back to the sitting room to hang his coat on the wall by the door. He stepped towards the sofa and collapsed onto it, exhausted from a day of runny noses, sprained ankles and stomachaches. He glanced around the rom and found himself once again in the position of not being able to relax. No matter what he tried, this place still did not feel like home. It had been eight months since he had moved into this flat, but there was just something about it that didn't feel right.

 _Because it's not 221B,_ his mind suggested, and he closed his eyes because he knew it was true.

John had spent only twenty-one months—not even two years!—living at 221B Baker Street, and it felt more like home than even his childhood home—a place he had lived in for eighteen years. And his mind was having a more difficult time than it should moving on. It was no mystery why: Sherlock. Instead of being able to depart on amiable terms (or not depart at all), Sherlock Holmes had thrown himself off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. Aside from tearing his best friend away from him, this action had left a hole in John's life, one that kept drawing him back any way that it could.

Four months after Sherlock's death, John hadn't been able to live in Baker Street anymore, and he had moved out. Now, a year after losing Sherlock, the detective's presence still pulled at him, refusing to let him move on. Perhaps it was the fact that Moriarty still hadn't been found. The criminal mastermind had brought the consulting detective to his grave and was still walking free. John would go after the man himself, but he needed Sherlock Holmes to even find him, and, well…

The kettle went off, and John got to his feet, putting his cup of tea together. Settling at the dining table, he opened a book and tried to relax as much as he could. It didn't last long. No sooner had he finished the first page of a chapter than his phone's text alert chimed. Sighing in resignation, John stood and went to fetch his phone, activating it to check his text messages.

 **There is a car waiting outside for you.**

 **Mycroft Holmes**

John rolled his eyes and moved over to his sitting room window. Sure enough, a black car sat on the pavement of the street below. John shook his head. He _really_ did not want to talk to Mycroft. He still had not completely forgiven him for betraying Sherlock by giving his life story to Moriarty.

His phone chimed with another text.

 **It's about Sherlock. You need to hear this.**

John stared at his phone another moment before gritting his teeth. "Damn it!" He turned, grabbed his coat from the wall and headed out the door.

* * *

John stepped into the room that the driver motioned him into and looked around. It was an abandoned hospital, and he was standing in the morgue. John shook his head at Mycroft's habit of evading Sherlock's notice with obscure meeting places.

The door across from him opened, and Mycroft Holmes stepped in, narrowing his eyes at John. "Dr. Watson."

John stepped towards him. "Is this really necessary, Mycroft? It's not like Sherlock's here to follow me anymore."

Mycroft frowned slightly. "I'm sorry?"

"Look, I'm here, all right?" said John, trying to keep his tone even. "What do you need to tell me?"

The frown disappeared as Mycroft's eyes grew concerned. "Oh, dear…"

"What?" asked John.

Mycroft fixed his gaze on John. "I was under the impression that _you_ had called this meeting."

John stared at him for a moment, his senses becoming alert as he began to understand. "I texted you?"

"Apparently not," said Mycroft, glancing around the room.

"Well, if we didn't text each other, then who did?" said John.

"I did."

John glanced over to see a ghost walking into the room: Irene Adler. John turned more towards her, stunned. "You…"

"Oh, don't look so shocked, Dr. Watson," said Irene as she came to a stop some distance from them. "I have faked my death before."

"You told me she was dead," John addressed to Mycroft.

"She was supposed to be," replied Mycroft, "but, apparently, my brother saw fit to ensure she wasn't."

"And I'm forever grateful," said Irene, "which is why I'm here."

"And why's that?" asked John.

"I've found Moriarty's network," said Irene.

Mycroft shook his head. "Impossible. My people have been searching for a year and haven't found anything. Moriarty has vanished."

"That's because James Moriarty is dead," said Irene. "He ate a bullet that day on St. Bart's roof."

John frowned over at Mycroft. "Then why didn't you find his body?"

"Moriarty's people took it," said Irene, looking over at Mycroft, "to fool you."

Mycroft frowned. "Fool me?"

Irene took a few steps closer to them. "When I discovered that Moriarty's network had set up an installation, I worked my way inside. What I found in the basement was…unexpected."

Intrigued despite himself, John replied, "What did you find?"

"It seems that Sherlock Holmes and I have something in common." Irene paused for a moment, very obviously relishing the drama of the moment. "We're both still alive."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

John's eyes widened in shock. "Alive?"

"That's not possible," said Mycroft instantly in a harsh tone. "DNA tests proved that body was Sherlock's."

"Unless it was rigged," said Irene. "The body they burned was a double."

"Wait, wait, slow down," said John. "What are you talking about?"

Irene raised one of her brows as she gave Mycroft a sultry smile. "Care to do the honors?"

Mycroft glanced at John and then back at Irene, looking like he wanted to argue with her more. Eventually, he sighed and turned to John. "Sherlock did not die from that fall. We faked his death."

John's gaze hardened at the thought that Mycroft had lied to him. "You faked it." He shook his head, turning away.

"And then, he died in the morgue," said Mycroft.

John turned back, calming down.

"Sherlock was to be taken into the morgue, where Molly Hooper would draw up a death certificate," explained Mycroft. "At some point that morning, Miss Hooper was abducted. She was found a few hours later unharmed, but the damage was already done. One of Moriarty's men had posed as a pathologist and killed Sherlock, burning his body beyond recognition. But apparently—" he turned back to Irene, "that never happened."

"They incapacitated Sherlock, substituted a body double, and that's what they burned," replied Irene. "They did a blood transfusion. That's why the blood tests on the body showed it to be Sherlock."

"So…he really is alive?" asked John.

"I swear it," said Irene.

"And I suppose you'll be wanting compensation before you divulge the location of this installation—" began Mycroft.

"Fifty-three degrees, twenty-three minutes North; two degrees, sixty-one minutes West," said Irene.

Both Mycroft and John stared at her, stunned.

"I told you: Sherlock saved my life," said Irene. "Now, I'm here to save his."

"What do we need to know?" asked Mycroft.

"Guards armed with automatic rifles," Irene listed off. "Twenty-seven men in the compound at any given time. Security system is a Boshen 250. Sherlock is being held in the northwest corner of the basement."

"Thank you," John told her, beyond grateful that he was going to see his friend again, turning to head to the door.

"John," said Irene.

John turned back, uneasy about her tone of voice and the fact that she had addressed him as "John;" it was usually "Dr. Watson."

"Sherlock is…" Irene hesitated, a look in her eyes that John had never seen before and which was making his heart skip a beat. "They've been torturing him."

The air left the room as John tried to breathe.

"Constantly," Irene went on. "For a year."

John barely heard the pained noise Mycroft made over the pounding of his own heart.

"He's…changed," said Irene. "You may not recognize him."

John nodded and turned back towards the door with Mycroft. He couldn't think about how traumatized Sherlock might be. He had to focus of they were going to get him out of there.

Mycroft stepped up alongside him, lowering his phone. "My team will meet us there."

"And we're picking up Lestrade on the way," John told him, dialing on his phone. He was pleased when Mycroft didn't argue. He put the phone to his ear. "Greg. I need you to listen carefully."

* * *

John climbed out of the car and approached the black vans parked on the hill, Detective Inspector Lestrade right behind him. "Mycroft."

Mycroft turned away from the twenty-man strike team dressed in black and assembled at the rear of the vans. "John. Inspector." He turned back to the operatives. "This is Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He will be in charge of this operation." He then motioned towards the man in front. "John, this is Lieutenant Samuels."

John stepped towards the team, automatically stepping back into the persona of army captain. "Report."

Samuels stepped forward as the rest continued to assemble their gear. "Two men at the perimeter, armed. Thermal scans show fifteen on the ground floor, six on the first and ten in the basement."

"Show me," said John.

Samuels led him and Greg some distance away past the patch of trees they had taken cover behind with their vans. As they reached the top of a hill, they ducked down and approached a man who was lying on the ground with a set of binoculars, a computer screen, a set of headphones and a long-range microphone. The three of them lay next to him as he took his headphones off.

"There was a gunshot not too long ago, and one of the bodies in the basement just went cold," the man reported.

"Oh, God…" muttered Greg.

John pushed aside the fear that this might have been Sherlock and held out his hand for the computer screen. The operative handed it over, and John looked it over. The fifteen on the ground floor were grouped in a room with other heat signatures that were most likely computers. The six on the first floor were stationed sporadically at the outer walls of the building, obviously keeping watch. Of the nine in the basement, four paced back and forth—guards—while the other five sat or lay in stationary positions—prisoners. His eyes then found a form lying on the ground, its red signature fading slowly towards yellow.

Pulling his gaze away from the body and telling himself that Sherlock was one of the red signatures—because he _had_ to be, he _had_ to—John handed the screen back. "Have you located the landline?"

"Yes, sir," said Samuels. "We'll surround the building, cut the power and move in."

"What about the prisoners?" asked Greg.

John nodded. "My thoughts as well. There're no access points that lead directly into the basement?"

"No, sir," the man replied.

"Then who's to stop the guards from killing the prisoners when they hear the commotion upstairs?" said John. He paused for a while to think things through. His eyes wandered over the building. "Are you able to disrupt the security camera feed?"

"For perhaps a minute," he replied. "Any longer, and they'd get suspicious."

"That's all I'll need," muttered John.

"Wait, you?" asked Greg.

"I was trained in stealth tactics," said John. "I can get in." He pointed at a door at the nearest corner of the building. "How often do the perimeter guards come into view of that door?"

"They walk the building directly opposite each other so someone is always in view of both sides of the place," answered the man keeping watch. "However, there is a blind spot." He pointed at the building as he spoke. "Once one guard leaves _this_ corner of the building, it takes approximately ten seconds before the next guard comes around _that_ corner."

John nodded, his eyes picking out cover points along the way. "I can make it. What about the sentries on the first floor?"

"We'll make a distraction," said Samuels. "Give us ten minutes."

"All right," said John before getting up and heading back to the vans with them. He headed to one of the vans and took off his coat, putting on a bulletproof vest.

"Captain."

John turned to see Samuels holding out an earpiece to him. John took it and put it in his ear.

"We've patched into the security feed," Samuels told him. "Jenkins will be keeping watch for you," he nodded at the man standing next to him, "both on the cameras and the thermal scanners."

John nodded in acknowledgement. "The diversion?"

"Pellets launched onto the roof. They'll turn away from the windows, and by the time they discover them, you'll be inside, and we'll cut the power."

Jenkins handed him a pair of goggles and then held up a small device. "When you get into position and have the goggles on, hit this button to let us know." He pointed to a switch on the side of the goggles. "Here's night vision."

John strapped the goggles to his vest and pocketed the device. "Are we ready?"

"On your word, sir," said Samuels.

John picked up one of the automatic rifles, checked the cartridge and swung the strap over his arm and head so it hung across his back. "Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

The team all moved out in separate directions, getting into position. John walked with Jenkins, Samuels and Greg through the trees to the closest vantage point to John's entrance.

Bending down behind the shrubs, Jenkins situated himself at a couple of laptops, typing away. He nodded up at John. "Ready."

Samuels put a hand to the earpiece he was wearing. "Report."

One by one, the different teams sounded off on the earpieces.

Samuels nodded at John. "Ready, Captain."

John looked over at the building, taking a steadying breath. "Go."

A few seconds went by before the faint sound of thumps and cracks reached them. A few more seconds passed as John crouched, tense and preparing himself. He pulled his focus down to his pathway to the door. Jenkins would watch everything else; his attention had to simply be on getting there.

"Go," said Jenkins.

John took off, running as silently and low to the ground as he could down the hill. Just as he reached a clump of tall boulders, Jenkins' voice came through his earpiece.

" _Down."_

John ducked behind the boulders, keeping as still as possible as he controlled his breathing. He listened to the sound of the pellets hitting the roof every few seconds as he waited for the guard to pass out of sight.

" _Ten seconds,"_ said Jenkins' voice.

John took a few deep, quiet breaths as he got ready to run again.

" _Go."_

John bolted up, jumping over the boulder and running across the open space towards the building. As he got within ten feet of the building, he could tell he wouldn't make it in the few seconds he had left before the guard came around the corner. Glancing down at the tall grass, he found a nearby patch that would go up to his knees. He threw himself to the ground just as Jenkins warned him. He pressed himself to the ground, controlling his breathing once again. He listened to the sounds of the pellets, keeping his ears peeled for the sound of footsteps. And before long, he heard boots crunching on the soil.

" _He's passing you."_

John nearly held his breath, willing his body to not move an inch. As the footsteps neared and then died away, John waited for his cue.

" _Go."_

John pushed himself from the grass and ran towards the door. As he got within two feet, a twig snapped under his foot, and he changed course.

" _Go! Go!"_ Jenkins warned frantically in his ear.

John reached the corner of the building and hid against the wall, cursing himself for alerting the guard.

" _Steady,"_ said Jenkins.

John listened to the guard's footsteps as they got closer, taking a few steps before pausing and starting again.

" _Five seconds,"_ warned Jenkins, the anxiety palpable in his voice.

John glanced towards the far corner of the building, behind which the other guard was approaching. And he was in full view.

" _He's moving back,"_ Jenkins told him. Two more seconds went by. _"Go."_

John darted around the corner, grabbed the door handle, yanked it open and closed it behind him.

" _Clear,"_ said Jenkins with a sigh of relief.

John retrieved the gun, aimed it in front of himself and moved down the corridor, approaching the hallway at the end that ran perpendicular to his.

" _Guard passing."_

John ducked into a room, waiting.

" _Clear."_

John hurried back into the corridor, reaching the end.

" _Hold."_

John waited at the corner for a moment.

" _Turn right."_

John turned right down the hall and approached a turn in it.

" _Clear."_

John moved around the corner without hesitation, hurrying towards a door at the very end. Halfway down, he could hear voices in one of the rooms.

" _Hold."_

John stopped next to a doorway, listening to a few men talking in the room.

" _Go."_

John hurried past the door and continued down the hall.

" _Third door from the end on your left leads to the basement."_

John reached the third door and quietly opened it, heading down the stairs.

" _Clear."_

John turned the corner and approached one of the thick pillars, taking cover behind it. Letting his gun hang by its strap, he quietly unclipped the goggles and pulled them onto his head, pressing his finger to the switch on the side. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pressed the button on the device. He put his hand back on his gun.

" _Cut the power,"_ said a voice in his earpiece. _"Move in."_

A second later, the lights went out, and John flipped his night vision on, bringing his gun up as he emerged from behind the pillar. Several shouts sounded as a guard emerged around a corner. John pulled the trigger, taking the guard down. He moved through the basement, shooting each guard he encountered.

" _You're clear, John,"_ said Jenkins. _"The rest of the men are upstairs. We've almost got all of them."_

John went back to each of the guards, searching for keys to the rooms around him. He finally got them off the third guard he searched and moved down the corridor.

" _The prisoner who was shot is in the room on your left."_

John approached the door, unlocked it and opened it just as the lights came back on. Wincing, John ripped the goggles off and looked into the room at the body lying there in a pool of its own blood. The man was wearing only a pair of shorts, and it was obvious he had been severely beaten before he was shot. He was lying slumped over, facedown, but his black hair made John's heart stop. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he approached the body and turned it over. He released his breath at the staring brown eyes and large nose. Sherlock was still alive somewhere in the basement.

John stood and moved back into the corridor, activating his earpiece. "It's not Sherlock. He's alive."

The strike team came down into the basement as John unlocked another door. A blonde woman inside shifted noisily, drawing herself into the corner.

"It's okay," John assured her. "They're gone. We're here to help you."

The woman dissolved into tears and many "thank you's" as one of the operatives tended to her. John moved on, opening up two more cells with grateful prisoners and one empty cell.

John opened the fifth door to silence and almost moved on before realizing that the cell wasn't empty. A man sat huddled against the wall, his legs curled up on the floor and his unkempt black hair hanging in his face. From the way he was slumped against the wall and his head was hanging, he was obviously asleep.

 _Or unconscious,_ John told himself.

John slowly approached him, not wanting to startle him should he come to, and looked him over. The man was wearing only a pair of filthy, tattered trousers. His back was practically covered with injuries—bruises, lacerations, burns—that there was hardly a patch of clear skin. He was also incredibly thin. John could tell the man's stature was naturally lean, but his bones were beginning to show through his skin; he was starving. The man cradled his right arm over his lap, and John could see a misshapen lump and some bruising there; the arm was broken.

Blinking to keep the water from his eyes and hoping his gut was wrong, John gently reached out to place his hand on the man's shoulder. "Sherlock?"

The instant his hand made contact, the man jolted awake with a gasp. He brought his knees up to his chest, cradled his broken right arm with his left between his chest and legs, pressed himself as far as he could to the wall and pushed his forehead into his knees, breathing fast and shallow. All this had happened in a single second; it was the terrified reaction of a man expecting punishment.

But one thing had happened as the man moved. His hair had moved out of his face long enough for John to catch a glimpse of it. John's heart broke as he took in the injuries once again. There were the more obvious current and healing injuries, but he could also see the pale scars from previous tortures.

Pushing past the emotional pain of seeing his friend in this condition, he tried again. "Sherlock, it's me. It's okay."

Sherlock didn't move; he could only tremble in fear.

John frowned. "Sherlock, it's me, John."

Sherlock's head slowly lifted just enough for him to be able to look at John, and John was shocked by what he saw in that gaze. There was no recognition, only fear and dread.

John tried to slowly reach out, softening his voice. "Sherlock, don't you—"

Sherlock's eyes darted to the hand approaching him, and he scrambled away from John, pushing himself into the corner and making his long form impossibly small.

John's jaw dropped as his heart screamed in his chest. This wasn't just Sherlock traumatized; this was Sherlock completely and utterly broken. Moriarty had finally won.

" _I'll burn the_ heart _out of you!"_

"John—" Greg began as he appeared in the doorway.

John flung an arm back, silently telling Greg to keep back. The footsteps halted, and there was silence for a moment.

"Oh, God…" breathed Greg, obviously catching sight of Sherlock.

John moved over towards the corner, keeping his distance from Sherlock. He sat down and made himself as small and unintimidating as possible. "Sherlock…you're safe. No one's going to hurt you ever again."

Sherlock only trembled, his breaths coming fast.

 _Does he even recognize his own name?_ John wondered.

"My name is John," he told him gently. "John Watson. I'm a doctor." He waited patiently, not making any move whatsoever.

Slowly, Sherlock's head lifted slightly, and he looked over at John.

John gave him a gentle smile. "Hey." He held his hands out to show that he wasn't going to make any sudden moves. He slowly pulled his wallet out of his pocket and opened it to his military ID. Keeping himself close to the floor, he pushed the wallet over. "See? I'm an army doctor. I help people."

Sherlock glanced at the wallet as it was pushed over and then watched John as he retreated back to his spot some five feet away. Sherlock watched him warily for a moment before his left hand reached down and picked up the wallet. His eyes moved over it quickly before looking back up at John.

"I'm here to help you," John told him. He looked down at Sherlock's hidden arm and gestured to it. "May I take a look at your arm?"

Sherlock watched him for a few seconds and then looked back at the ID in his left hand. After a minute or so, Sherlock slowly slid his right arm out from behind his legs and held it over his knees. John slowly moved over in front of Sherlock, those keen, terrified eyes watching him all the way.

"I need to touch it to see how bad it is," John told him. "That may sting a bit, but I promise I won't make it worse. Is that all right?"

Frowning slightly—probably thrown off by the request for his permission—Sherlock stiffly nodded once.

John slowly reached over—as Sherlock's limbs trembled all the more—and placed his fingers on the end of his arm to show that he wouldn't hurt him. Sherlock flinched at the touch, and John waited as he got used to it. John glanced up and made eye contact with Sherlock, who watched him with a confused gaze. John then moved his fingers along the bone, slowly approaching the lump. Sherlock gasped and flinched as John touched the break.

"Sorry," John told him. He moved his hands and looked at him. "This is called a transverse fracture. It means the bone has broken all the way through, and from the shape of it, it looks like it's been displaced. Does your arm sting?"

Sherlock hesitated a few moments before giving a stilted nod.

"Does it feel like big splinters stabbing you?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded once more, quicker this time.

"That's because the broken ends of the bone are misaligned," John told him. "The broken ends are being shoved into your muscles. I can help get rid of that. But it's going to hurt."

Sherlock's breathing started to quicken.

"I don't have to," John quickly told him. "If you don't want to do it, we won't. I admit that it will hurt quite a bit for about a minute or so. But it will make that stabbing feeling start to go away. Do you want me to fix it?"

Sherlock looked down at his arm and appeared to think it over for several moments. He then looked back up at John and nodded.

John nodded back. "I'm going to realign the bone. This means I need to pull on your hand so that the broken bones get back into place. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded nervously.

"What I want you to do is grab my shoulder with your left hand," John instructed. "When it hurts, squeeze my shoulder as hard as you can. Can you do that?"

Sherlock stared at him in indecision.

"You can hurt me all you want," John reassured him. "I promise I won't get mad."

Sherlock slowly reached over with his left arm, hesitating a moment before lightly placing his hand on John's right shoulder.

John gave him a playful smile. "Oh, well, there's no way that's going to help. Come on, _really_ squeeze it."

It made John indescribably happy when he saw a hint of a smile appear at the corner of Sherlock's mouth before it disappeared. Sherlock's grip tightened slightly, and John gently grasped his right hand.

"Are you ready?" asked John.

Sherlock's eyes were now darting from John's grip on his arm to his face and back so fast that he looked like he was trying to speed-read or something.

"You yell as loud as you need to," John told him. "And don't forget to squeeze. Okay? I'm right here with you. We'll go as slow as you need to."

Sherlock stared down at his arm for a long few minutes before finally looking up at John and nodding, his grip on John's shoulder tightening.

"Okay," said John, slowly tightening his own grip on the hand. "I'll make it as quick as I can." He took his other hand and firmly grasped Sherlock's elbow. "One…"

Sherlock's fingers tightened on his shoulder, practically digging into it.

"Two…"

Sherlock's eyes slammed closed as his trembling worsened.

"Three."

With a quick movement, John yanked on the two ends of Sherlock's forearm. With a faint grinding noise, the distal end of his radius and ulna snapped back into position. Sherlock let out a strangled cry like a wounded animal, and John winced as Sherlock's fingernails cut into his skin. John immediately released his hold, and Sherlock pulled his arm back, cradling it as he panted and grimaced in pain. John held his hands out, backing away about a foot to show that he wouldn't do anything else. Slowly, Sherlock's breathing evened out, and he looked up at John, seemingly surprised to see him waiting patiently next to him.

"We should probably put a splint on that so it doesn't move," John told him in a quiet voice. "All I'll do is tie something to your arm, that's it."

Sherlock looked down at his arm and nodded.

John took a quick glimpse around the cell but saw nothing he could use. "I'm going to go find a piece of wood or something, okay?"

Sherlock's eyes darted to the doorway where Greg stood, and his eyes widened, his breath starting to come in gasps again. He looked back at John and made an unconscious move as though to grab for John's arm before stopping himself.

"I'll go look, John," Greg said quietly from the door before leaving.

Sherlock watched him go warily before relaxing—well, as relaxed as he was before John mentioned leaving.

"Do you have any other major injuries?" asked John. "Any more breaks or sprains or anything?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Good," said John with a smile. "Can I ask you something?"

Sherlock hesitated and gave a nod.

"Do you remember anything?" asked John. "Where you live? How you got here? Your…friends and family?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before shaking his head.

"Do you know who you are?" asked John.

Sherlock made a gesture with his head as though he meant to nod and shake his head at the same time, but he then tilted his head a little and shrugged.

"You know your name but nothing else," John surmised.

Sherlock frowned and nodded, perhaps confused at how this apparent stranger could read him so well.

"It's going to be all right," John told him. "You don't remember, but the two of us are good friends."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, obviously not sure if he could believe this or not.

"I'm sorry it took me this long to get to you," said John, "but I'm not going to let them hurt you ever again."

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the doorway as footsteps were heard, and his eyes widened as he pushed himself against the wall and Greg appeared in the doorway.

"Wait there, Greg," John called, halting the inspector at the door. "I'll come get it."

Sherlock calmed a little, so John slowly stood and walked over to Greg, who had managed to conjure up a blanket as well as the medical splint.

"Thanks," said John. He turned and approached Sherlock, setting the items on the floor. "Are you cold?"

For Sherlock had been gazing at the blanket in naked longing. He looked up at John and nodded. John unfolded the blanket and leaned toward Sherlock with it stretched out. Sherlock leaned just far enough away from the wall for John to drape the blanket around his back. He grabbed hold of the ends with his left hand, wrapping it tight around him.

John grabbed the splint from the ground. "Let's get that arm taken care of, shall we?"

Sherlock slowly removed his right arm from the blanket and turned in the corner so his left side and back were pressed to the wall, giving John the ability to sit next to him and wrap the arm. Smiling at the small sign of trust, John sat on his friend's right and gently pressed the splint to the underside of his forearm. As he wrapped the splint around the arm, he was pleased to see that Sherlock's trembling had subsided to tremors that may have only been shivers from the cold.

"We can put a cast on this when we get you out of here," John told him in an endeavor to distract him. He glanced up at Sherlock's face and saw that indecision there again. "Do you remember what a cast is?"

John had to fight back a laugh when Sherlock took on a faint expression of irritation and the smallest eye roll. He was plainly saying—in his new timid way—that John was being an idiot.

"Good," said John. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that it wouldn't hurt one bit. We'll also get you cleaned up. You could use a shave."

Sherlock gave a shy smile through the whiskers on his face.

John fastened the splint and smiled. "There. Try it out."

Sherlock gingerly moved his right arm back and forth and then brought it back inside his blanket, looking at John and nodding.

"John," said Greg quietly.

John glanced over at him.

"They've gotten all the prisoners out," Greg told him.

John nodded and looked back at Sherlock. "Do you want to get out of here?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly, but he glanced at the doorway with trepidation.

"Hey," said John.

Sherlock looked back at him.

"No one out there is going to hurt you," he told him. "Not while I'm here." He held out his hand. "What do you say?"

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes narrowing, before he slowly reached out and grasped onto John's hand. John got his feet under him and helped Sherlock to stand, but he didn't make it all of two seconds before his legs collapsed under him.

"Whoa!" said John, catching Sherlock and wrapping an arm around him. He glanced once again at his emaciated form. "When was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock looked at him with a frown as his eyes unfocused. A moment later, they cleared, and he gave a shake of his head.

"That's all right," John told him. "I'll carry you. Is that okay?"

Sherlock nodded, and John squatted slightly, scooping his arm behind Sherlock's knees and pulling him up towards his chest. He had braced himself for the weight but was stunned at how light he was. Sherlock pressed himself towards John's chest, hiding his face in the blanket he held tight around him—whether in embarrassment for being carried like a child or for fear of the other people he could hear, John could not tell. Whatever the reason, he was pleased to see that Sherlock found comfort and trust in him. Maybe his friend was still in there after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

John glanced down at Sherlock, who was pressed into his side, hiding in the blanket. Sherlock's trembling had begun again when they had left his cell, and by the time they had gotten outside, he was hyperventilating. John tried to speak soothing words to him, but it seemed the unknown, open space terrified him. At least in his cell, there was no input to watch out for. Now, there were all sorts of new sounds and things to be wary about. Thankfully, he had calmed a bit once John had gotten him into the car Mycroft had driven to the building and put his arm around him. Now, Mycroft, Greg, John and Sherlock were headed to Mycroft's safehouse a couple dozen miles away.

John looked up into the rearview mirror to see Mycroft staring back at them. John could see an emotion he had never seen Mycroft exhibit before, despite Mycroft's statements to the contrary: worry. John doubted that even in Sherlock's most drug-wrecked youth he had ever seen his brother in this state.

"Sherlock," said John quietly.

Sherlock's head turned slightly in the blanket.

"Why don't you try another sip of water?" John asked him.

Sherlock hesitated and then emerged from the blanket. John opened the water bottle and held it out, and Sherlock grabbed it with his left hand, taking a big gulp.

"Hey, hey, slow, remember?" John coached, easing the bottle away from him.

Sherlock handed the water over and retreated back into his blanket. John put the lid on the bottle and wrapped his arm around Sherlock again.

It wasn't long before Mycroft announced, "This is it."

They pulled to a stop in front of what appeared to be a small two-story manor in the middle of nowhere. Greg and Mycroft got out of the car as John looked down at Sherlock.

"Hear that?" said John. "We're here. Are you ready to get out?"

Sherlock looked up through the windscreen at the house, and then he glanced at John nervously.

"Don't worry," John told him. "I'm staying here, too."

Sherlock's head emerged a little more from the blanket, and he nodded. John opened the car door and got out, turning back as Sherlock scooted along the seat and hung his legs out the door.

John took hold of Sherlock's arms through the blanket and helped him to stand. He then pulled him into his arms and carried him towards the house. He seemed more calm here than back at the installation, now that things had quieted down. Mycroft unlocked the door and held it open, and John entered the spacious house, heading straight into a sitting room off the main hall.

Mycroft had had his people prepare things for their arrival, and John was grateful for it as he set Sherlock down on the sofa in front of the warm fireplace. Sherlock immediately pulled his feet up onto the cushion, hugging his knees to his chest under the blanket.

"Inspector, there should be soup ready in the kitchen," said Mycroft.

Greg headed out of the room as John sat next to Sherlock. Mycroft appeared next to John, holding out a bag as Sherlock shrunk away from the stranger.

"Ta," said John, taking the bag and opening it. He glanced up to see Sherlock's eyes barely peeking out from the blanket. He looked over to see that Mycroft had not moved away from them. "Mycroft, back off."

Mycroft looked over at his brother's reaction to him and then moved over to an armchair on the other side of the room, taking a seat. Sherlock watched him for a moment and then glanced at John, but he didn't relax.

John gestured towards the man. "Sherlock, this is Mycroft Holmes. He's your brother."

Sherlock looked back over at Mycroft, staring at him for a while before letting his face emerge from his haven.

"And the other man is Greg Lestrade," John told him. "He's a police officer. A detective."

Sherlock nodded slightly in understanding before his eyes moved over to John, watching everything that he was doing with the bag.

"I'm getting out some things to help you after you eat," John explained as he pulled items out. "Some antibiotic so you don't get sick, rubbing alcohol to clean your cuts, plasters for the smaller cuts, gauze for the larger ones; things like that. I promise to explain everything I do and to only do it if you want to."

Greg returned at that moment with a bowl of steaming soup on a tray along with some crackers and a cup of water. "Ready for some food?"

John got up and pulled a small table up in front of the sofa, taking the tray from Greg and setting it on the table. "You eat whatever you can; you don't have to finish. But just remember: go slow. Your stomach isn't used to food, so eating fast will just make you sick."

Sherlock nodded but made no move towards the food he so obviously wanted.

"Do you want us to go in the other room?" asked John.

Sherlock looked up with a grateful nod.

"We'll be just through there," John told him, pointing through the doorway to a lounge. "If you need me, just call, okay?"

Sherlock nodded as Mycroft stood, and the three of them headed through to the lounge, where John positioned himself so Sherlock could see him.

"Blimey…" breathed Greg. "I hardly recognize him."

"Me either," said John. "I mean, he's…Sherlock, you know? Nothing rattles him."

"That's not true," said Mycroft.

John looked over at him. "No?"

Mycroft took a breath before speaking. "When we were children, Sherlock suffered the loss of his best friend. Victor suddenly vanished one day and was never found. Sherlock didn't speak for a month, and when he did, we surmised that he had no memory of this friend. He had altered his memory; instead of having had a friend who died, Victor became Redbeard, the beloved family dog." He sighed and looked over at Sherlock. "It seems as though Sherlock's defense mechanism is to erase that which is painful."

John stared at Sherlock in shock. "He never remembered?" He looked back at Mycroft. "Even now, he never remembered Victor?"

Mycroft slowly shook his head, still staring at his brother. "Never."

John looked back at Sherlock, his heart breaking. Did this mean Sherlock's memory would never come back? This wasn't like last time; Sherlock had forgotten _everything_ , not just one childhood friend. That meant he would start to remember, right?

"Sherlock has the strongest will of anyone I have ever met," said John. "But a year of constant torture?" He looked back at the other two. "I guess I just didn't think what that could do to him." He looked back at into the other room.

Sherlock scooped a small amount of soup onto the spoon and hurriedly swallowed it, glancing around the room as he tightened his hold on the blanket around him.

"I've never seen him this broken before," John went on. "I honestly don't know if he'll come back from this."

"This is the most trying test he has ever been through," said Mycroft. "I'm afraid I have to agree with Dr. Watson. He may not come back to us. And if he does…he may not be the same person he was."

"I also can't help wondering…" began John before he dropped his gaze and shook his head.

"What?" asked Greg.

John hesitated before he looked back up at them, meeting Mycroft's eyes with difficulty. "What if he was more than just…physically abused?"

Mycroft's face paled as Greg's eyes widened.

"No…" muttered Greg. "They wouldn't…"

"Wouldn't they?" said John. "Moriarty employed the worst sort of criminals in his network. What if…" He looked over at Sherlock as he slowly ate his soup, glancing up every few seconds at John. "I mean, is his fear of being touched because of sexual abuse or simply because he's expecting pain?"

"Is there any way to tell?" asked Mycroft softly.

John shook his head, looking back at them. "I'd hate to put him through those kind of questions and tests. That's too much for him right now. Eventually, he needs to talk about it all, but…"

Greg nodded. "Not now. You're right."

John straightened up in his seat as Sherlock put the glass of water down and leaned back against the sofa, insulating himself in the blanket. "I think he's finished." He stood. "Can the two of you go get everything in his room ready?"

Mycroft and Greg stood and moved through the door that led into the hall.

John stepped through the door that led back to the sitting room. "Finished?"

Sherlock nodded.

John glanced down to see that most of the soup and a few of the crackers were gone. "Great." He sat next to Sherlock. "So, here's the deal: it will be much easier to get you cleaned up before I patch you up since we won't be able to get the bandages wet. But it's up to you. Do you think you're ready for a shower, or a bath? Or do you want to fix your wounds first?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands, inspecting the dirt there. He then ran one of his hands over the scraggly beard on his face. He looked back up at John.

"Bath?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded, and John helped him up. This time, Sherlock's legs didn't buckle, so John wrapped his right arm around his shoulders and took hold of Sherlock's left arm with his left, helping him to cross the room. It was slow-going, but they eventually made it up the stairs to the first floor.

John looked down both hallways. "I'm, erm…not sure where to go."

Sherlock's body shook once with what John suspected was a laugh.

Greg stepped out of a room on their right. "John."

John helped Sherlock down the hall and into the room.

It was like a first-class cabin in a luxury cruise liner halfway between modern and Edwardian. There was an oak four-poster super king-size bed, a marble fireplace with an armchair, end table and small sofa in front of it, two built-in bookcases across from the fireplace and a flat-screen television across from the bed. An open doorway next to the bed, which had light pouring through it, obviously led to a private bathroom.

"How about this?" said John as he helped Sherlock over to sit on the bed. "Your own private penthouse."

Sherlock looked down at the plush comforter he sat on, running his hand over the material in amazement. Smiling, John went through the bathroom door to see a spacious walk-in shower, jacuzzi tub that could probably fit three people and a long bench across from the toilet and marble sink. He found a change of clothes—pajama bottoms, t-shirt and pants—sitting on the bench along with any toiletries that might be needed—soap, shampoo, razor, shaving cream. John moved everything on the bench over to the sink and went back out to the bedroom.

"I think what we'll do is clean your arm off first," said John, pointing to Sherlock's splinted right arm. "Then you can take a bath. After you're done, we'll get you a shave and put that cast on. Does all that sound okay?"

Sherlock looked down at his broken arm and frowned down at it before looking up at John, holding the arm up.

"I was wondering about that, too," said John. "Tell you what: we'll get you another pair of pants, and you can wear those while I help."

Sherlock nodded as Greg came into the room, carrying the bag of medical supplies.

"Ta," said John as he took the bag and set it on the bed. "Can you get everything ready for the cast?"

"Yeah, no problem," said Greg, heading back out of the room.

John walked over to a dresser under the television, opening drawers until he found the pants, and he pulled a pair out. He walked back to the bed. "Ready?"

Unwrapping the blanket from around himself, Sherlock shakily stood as John helped him. They headed into the bathroom, and John eased Sherlock down onto the bench, setting the pants next to him.

"Go ahead and change into these," John told him. "Then we'll start with that arm." He moved back out into the bedroom, closing the door behind himself.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, John kept his ears perked up for any sign of danger Sherlock might be in; he wasn't exactly the most steady on his feet right now. After a while, the bathroom door opened, and Sherlock was standing in the doorway, his legs trembling.

"Hey!" said John as he darted forward and caught him. He gave his friend a smile. "What did you think you were doing? Trying to run a marathon?"

Sherlock smiled a little as John helped him back to the bench. He went to retrieve the medical bag and then closed the door. He then started running a bath, filling the tub. He searched the cabinets until he found a stack of flannels, and he pulled one out and wet it, scrubbing some soap into it. He turned back to the bench to see Sherlock trying to get the splint off.

"Here," John told him. "Let me help."

He set the flannel on the bench and slowly unstrapped the splint, trying to jostle the broken arm as little as possible. When he finally got it off, he picked up the flannel again.

"Hold it still for me, all right?" said John.

Sherlock grasped onto his wrist, holding the broken bones steady. John gently wiped the flannel across his arm, removing the filth and dried blood from who knew what injuries. He had to go back to rinse the flannel a few times—and turn the tap on the tub off—but eventually, Sherlock's right arm from his fingers to his shoulder was clean.

John smiled as he picked the splint back up. "You look like you're wearing a bodysuit with a sleeve missing."

Sherlock smiled as John put the splint back in place.

 _He still won't talk,_ John thought. _Is that because of the trauma like when he was a child? Or when he was held captive, was he punished for making any sound?_

"Well," said John as he let go of Sherlock's arm, "I'd say that bath is calling, wouldn't you?" He bent down to remove his shoes and socks and then rolled his trousers up to his knees. "All right, come on."

John helped Sherlock up and over to the jacuzzi, stepping over the edge and onto the bench that ran all around the inside. He helped Sherlock get his legs over the side and sit down while John got back out. He went to retrieve the toiletries and some towels, placing them on the floor next to them. He put his feet back in the tub and sat on the edge of it, grabbing the bar of soap.

"Go ahead and clean whatever you can, and I'll get the rest," John told him.

An hour and one bath and shave later, Sherlock looked like himself once again, apart from his wounds, which John set to work on. It was slow-going as he had to explain everything before he did it so as not to alarm Sherlock. After the small wounds were patched up, they then put the cast on Sherlock's arm.

"There," said John after the cast had finally set. "All done. You'll need surgery eventually, but we can save that for when you feel more up to it." He looked up at Sherlock to see his eyelids drooping. "You're exhausted, aren't you? Come on."

They made their way back to the bed, where John helped him get his shirt on over his cast. John pulled the blankets back, and Sherlock got under them, getting comfortable.

"I'm going to go get a glass of water so you can take some pain medicine," said John.

As expected, Sherlock's face drained a little.

"I'm not leaving," John told him. "I'm going downstairs, and I'll be right back. I promise. Neither me, your brother nor Inspector Lestrade are going to let anything happen to you."

After a moment, Sherlock nodded, and John headed for the door, going downstairs to the kitchen.

At the island in the middle of the room, Greg looked up from the tea he had made himself. "How is he?"

John sighed as he got a glass down from the cupboard. "Well, he **looks** better. Pretty sure he feels the same, though."

Greg nodded as John filled the glass. "Listen, Mycroft made an offer to pay us to stay here until Sherlock gets better."

John turned to him. "Instead of going to work?"

"Yeah," said Greg.

John let out a sigh. "Well, that's a relief. I was wondering how I would pay the bills if I was going to stay here for who knows how long."

Greg smiled knowingly as John turned and headed back for the staircase. When he opened the door of Sherlock's room, he noticed several things: the bathroom door had been closed, the curtains on the window had been drawn tight, and Sherlock was curled up into a ball under the covers, trembling with his face buried in the blankets. When the door had opened, Sherlock's head had darted up, his eyes wide, and he let out a held breath as his trembling subsided.

John sighed as he walked towards the bed, setting the glass on the bedside table. He headed for the medical bag on the sofa and pulled a bottle of paracetamol out. He paused as he was about to open it.

 _Did they drug him while he was in there?_

Turning towards the bed, his question was answered when he saw Sherlock's gaze locked on the bottle of pills in his hand.

John stepped forward, holding the bottle out. "It's never been opened. See?" He pointed to the plastic wrapped around the cap. He broke off the plastic and opened the bottle, taking one of the pills out. He put it in his mouth and took a drink of water, swallowing it.

Sherlock watched him a moment before sitting up a little and holding his hand out. John tipped the bottle onto his hand to give him a pill and then grabbed the glass. Sherlock put the pill in his mouth and took the water from John, swallowing it. John placed the glass back on the table and watched as Sherlock hunkered back down under the covers. John glanced once again at the closed bathroom door and drawn curtains—both attempts to shut the world down to one entry point: the door that led to the hall. He remembered back to Sherlock trembling under the blankets, Sherlock's terrified face each time John talked of leaving the room and Sherlock huddled alone in his cell where he had been tortured for the past year.

John moved to the dresser and pulled out a change of clothes, ignoring Sherlock's confused frown as he passed him and headed into the bathroom. Once he had changed, he came back out, tossing his other clothes onto the window seat.

John moved around the foot of the bed. "All right, budge up." He stepped up to the side of the bed nearest the door and flung the blankets down.

With a confused frown, Sherlock scooted over to the middle of the bed.

"Your bed looks _so_ much more comfortable than mine," said John as he climbed into the bed, pulling the blankets back up.

John watched as the frown disappeared from Sherlock's face and a look of understanding and gratitude appeared, and John could tell Sherlock was perfectly aware of the fact that John had not visited his own room at all. Sherlock settled himself back down, his limbs held not quite so tight to his body this time. John got himself comfortable, trying to ignore the lamps he had left on for Sherlock. It wasn't too difficult; he'd had to get used to sleeping in all sorts of conditions in Afghanistan.

And if Sherlock was woken up by nightmares several times during the night and John held him until he fell back asleep, neither one said a thing about.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

John stood next to Sherlock as they made it down the last step of the staircase, one hand on his back and the other holding onto his hand for support. "There we go. One good night of rest, and you hardly need any help!"

Sherlock smiled sheepishly and shook his head as they made their way down the foyer and into the kitchen.

"Hey, look who's awake!" said Greg softly as he gave Sherlock a smile.

Sherlock's grip on John's hand tightened, and John gave his hand a squeeze to let him know he was there. Sherlock's grip eased, and they made their way to the island. Sherlock sat on one of the stools across from Greg, and John started making some beans and toast.

"How are you doing, Sherlock?" Greg asked.

John glanced over to see Sherlock shrink in his seat a little, having not talked to Greg before—as far as he could remember. He then gave a noncommittal shrug as he looked at Greg.

"Well, that's good," Greg told him. "Is, um…is there anything you want to do today?"

Sherlock gave another shrug.

"How about a movie?" said Greg. "This place has an excellent big-screen television."

Sherlock gave yet another shrug and looked down at the countertop in front of him.

"Okay," said Greg, looking up at John with a shrug of his own.

John went back to his preparations, and before long, the three of them were enjoying breakfast. It seemed almost normal—apart from Sherlock not talking—and it wasn't until halfway through the meal that they were given a reminder of their situation. John and Sherlock were sitting on the side of the island faced away from the doorway when Mycroft walked in in that quiet, stealthy way of his. He had then spoken while still behind them.

Sherlock jumped, startled at the sudden noise—and, no doubt, the addition of someone else in the room—and his arm knocked into the glass of water in front of him. The glass slid off the counter and tumbled to the floor, shattering. The sound of the glass breaking was an instant trigger. Sherlock flung himself from his seat, flying over to the furthest corner of the room and pressing himself into it as he tried to make himself as small as possible. He clutched his legs to his chest as he hid his face, hyperventilating and trembling.

John was instantly off his seat, slowly approaching his friend. "Sherlock. It's all right. You're safe." He knelt next to him, his hands hovering over but not touching him. "It's me, John, remember?"

Sherlock slowly looked up at John, and John was shocked to see tears on his friend's face. John pulled Sherlock towards him, holding him tight as Sherlock clung to the front of his shirt.

"John…" whispered Greg.

John looked up at him, and Greg pointed to the floor. Leading to the corner where they sat was a trail of small smudges of blood. John glanced down at Sherlock's foot to see blood on the side of it.

 _Dammit, he ran through the glass._

There wasn't enough blood on the floor to suggest an artery or even a vein was sliced open, so John waited until Sherlock's breathing and trembling had calmed down.

"Sherlock…" said John quietly, "I think you have some glass in your feet. Can I take a look?"

Sherlock nodded, and John eased slowly back and moved over to get to Sherlock's feet. Sherlock straightened his legs, and John took a look.

"Well, it doesn't look like there's much," John told him. "Hey, Greg—"

The medical kit appeared next to his face, and he looked up at Mycroft.

"Thanks," said John, taking the bag and setting to work.

* * *

John held onto Sherlock's hand as they walked into the lounge, Sherlock wincing as he put weight on his lacerated feet.

"A couple more steps," John told him.

They reached the sofa, and Sherlock sat down.

John stepped over to the television, grabbing the remote and turning it on. He moved over to a shelf full of DVDs that he was sure wasn't usually there. "What do you think? Action? Drama?" He glanced back at Sherlock hopefully. "Mystery?"

Sherlock gave him a shrug.

John turned back to the DVDs. _We're going to need to work on that._

He glanced through the titles, trying to pick one.

 _Shutter Island_

 _Prisoners in cells; too risky._

 _Armageddon_

 _Too many explosions; loud noises aren't good right now. That rules out all the action movies._

He went through each of the films this way, finding reasons for most of them as to why it's too soon to watch it. Pretty soon, he was left with a couple dramas, some documentaries, a bunch of comedies and some sitcom seasons.

John smiled as he looked at the collection of _Friends_ DVDs. Here was something that even when bad things happen, they were funny. Or at least not traumatizing. He pulled a disc out and put it in the player.

"Do you remember this show?" asked John as the menu came up. "Or, well…I don't know if you were even aware of it before…"

Sherlock was frowning at him, so John just shook his head and settled back into the cushions as he started the show.

* * *

Apparently, _Friends_ was a huge success. John had seen an actual genuine, comfortable smile on Sherlock's face instead of one that said, "I find that funny, but I have to get rid of my smile in case I'm not allowed." They spent the rest of the day watching it, and John made them hot cocoa as night fell.

John was sitting on the window seat along the wall from the bathroom in Sherlock's room, as he seemed determined to try and take care of everything himself. But John had promised he would stay close by to watch out for him.

Mycroft stepped into the room, heading towards him. "John."

"Mycroft," John greeted as he stood. "Hey, I wanted to thank you for covering our expenses while we're here."

"It is the least I could do, John," Mycroft replied, coming to a stop in front of him. "I've always known you were good for my brother, but never as much as now."

John nodded a little.

"I wanted to ask your opinion on a certain matter," Mycroft went on.

"Sure," said John, crossing his arms.

"Shall I tell Dr. Hooper of Sherlock's survival?" asked Mycroft. "After all, Sherlock trusted her to keep the secret of his faked death. To keep her in the dark now would be…callous."

John had not been expecting that and didn't know what to say at first. If they told Molly about Sherlock, surely she would want to see him, visit him—especially once she found out how traumatized he was. Was that a smart decision regarding Sherlock? Adding _another_ person for him to get used to?

But then, he thought about how _he_ would feel if Sherlock was alive and no one had told him.

John looked back up at Mycroft and nodded. "Yeah, she should be told. Be sure to tell her what she'll see if she visits, though. I'd hate for her to try to hug him and send him into a panic attack."

"I will," Mycroft told him. "She will most likely visit some time tomorrow."

John nodded. "I'll tell Sherlock."

"I've also told our parents," Mycroft said.

John nodded a few times. "Of course. When do they want to visit?"

"They were in California at the time and are on their way," Mycroft replied. "They couldn't get a flight until tomorrow, so they will probably be by the day after."

"Right," said John as the bathroom door opened. He turned towards Sherlock, who stood in the doorway. "Hey, how'd it go?"

Sherlock gave a nod, his eyes darting towards Mycroft every once in a while. John gave Mycroft a look, motioning towards Sherlock with his eyes. Thankfully, Mycroft was just as good at reading between the lines as his brother was.

"Good, Sherlock," Mycroft told him. "You're doing very well, little brother."

Sherlock looked a little more relaxed as he moved over to the bed.

"Good night, Mycroft," John hinted at him.

"Yes, good night," said Mycroft. He looked at his brother, who was getting into the bed. "Sleep well, Sherlock." He moved to the door and left.

* * *

The nightmares were just as bad as they had been the night before, and Sherlock still refused to talk about them—or anything else. But there was one thing they did need to talk about that day.

"Hey, Sherlock," said John after breakfast. "I need to tell you something."

Sherlock set his glass of water down and turned towards John.

"You know how Greg and I are your friends?" said John. "Friends that you can't remember?"

Sherlock nodded.

"There's another friend that would like to see you," said John, taking his wallet out and pulling out a picture. "Her name is Molly Hooper." He handed the picture to Sherlock, who stared down at it. "I know it would mean a lot to her if she could visit. Would you like that?"

Fully expecting an indecisive shrug, John was surprised when—after studying the picture for several moments—Sherlock gave the tiniest of nods.

John smiled. "Great. She should be here in a few hours."

Sherlock nodded and drank the rest of his water before handing the glass to John and waiting for them to head into the sitting room.

* * *

The doorbell rang, causing Sherlock to jump.

Greg got to his feet. "I'll get it."

John turned to Sherlock. "That should be Molly. You ready?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Now, she thought you were dead, so she might cry a little," John warned him. "They're happy tears. Right?"

Sherlock nodded.

Just then, Greg came back into the sitting room with Molly. Molly let out a gasp at the sight of Sherlock—no doubt a combination of seeing him alive and seeing the wounds on his face that were still healing.

Molly then amazingly pulled herself back together and smiled. "Hi, Sherlock." She slowly took a few steps into the room. "My name is Molly Hooper. We've known each other for several years."

John watched Sherlock closely as Molly stepped over to the sofa across from them. But unlike the first night when John introduced Greg and Mycroft, Sherlock did not seem to be scared of her. Wary, yes—if the narrowed eyes and confused frown were anything to go by—but he wasn't trembling and shrinking away from her. Had he gotten used to meeting new people? Was it because Molly was a woman and all of his captors had been men? Was it because she was handling him so delicately? All three?

Molly sat down on the sofa, watching Sherlock closely as though searching for something. "Do you remember me?"

Sherlock slowly shook his head.

"No, I supposed you don't, do you?" said Molly sadly. "That must be very hard." She glanced over at John for a moment before looking back at Sherlock. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor as he thought, and then he looked up at Molly and shook his head as he shrugged a little.

Molly nodded. "Well, I just wanted to introduce myself today. I'll be back on another day. Maybe we'll talk or something."

Sherlock nodded, and Molly got to her feet, slowly stepping toward Sherlock and stretching her hand out. John opened his mouth to tell her that wasn't a good idea, but Sherlock wasn't moving at all. He was just watching her hand in interest as she placed it on his own.

"If you need anything, I'll be here for you," Molly told him.

Sherlock looked up into her face as she patted his hand and straightened back up.

"I'll walk you out, Molly," John told her. He looked at Sherlock. "Is that all right? That Greg stays here instead of me?"

Sherlock shrunk in his seat and glanced over at Greg.

Greg looked over at John with a cheeky grin. "Oh, I think we can survive five minutes without you, John." He looked back at Sherlock. "Isn't that right?"

Sherlock smiled a little and nodded.

John smiled. "I'll be right back." He stood and walked with Molly out of the room and to the front door. "I don't know how you did it."

"Did what?" asked Molly, turning to him.

"When Sherlock first met us, he was trembling and wouldn't let anyone touch him," said John. "He's still so jumpy around even me. He meets you for supposedly the first time, and he's practically calm."

"Really?" asked Molly, looking back towards the sitting room with a warm smile. She looked back at John. "I guess I have the magic touch."

"You must have," said John. He held the door open for her. "I'll be in touch."

"Thanks," said Molly, turning and heading out of the house.

After John closed the door, he watched for a moment as Molly walked back to her car, wiping away tears.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

 **Yeah, it's short, but I don't care. :)**

For the next four days, things went on as they had been: meals, movies or television and visits. Molly came over again, and once again, Sherlock was calm around her. John couldn't explain it. He was still jumpy around them all, but when Molly visited, it seemed to calm him. He would ask, but Sherlock wouldn't answer anyway, so what was the point?

And when Sherlock's parents visited? John had not been expecting them at all. They were just so ordinary compared to Sherlock and his brother. How had they produced these two eccentric geniuses? It was especially difficult watching Mrs. Holmes try to control herself when all she clearly wanted to do was hold her son. And the tears only made Sherlock more and more uneasy.

Sherlock had finally made it through the night without waking up in a cold sweat with a scream on his lips. It had been reduced to some hyperventilating and trembling. And, of course, John was always there to chase away the night terrors.

The next morning, John was helping Greg make some breakfast as Sherlock sat at the kitchen island, reading a fantasy novel as he waited.

"So, he's reading now," stated Greg quietly.

"Yeah, grabbed it from the library last night," John told him.

Greg glanced back at the reading detective. "He almost looks normal again, doesn't he?"

John smiled at Greg. "I know what you mean. I thought I missed the cases before, but now…" He gave a significant glance in Sherlock's direction. "It feels like things are back to normal, and yet, it feels different. You know?"

"Exactly," said Greg, laughing a little. "I never thought I'd miss being called an idiot."

John laughed as he pulled the kettle out of a cupboard.

"John."

John froze and looked over at Greg with wide eyes. Together, they turned to look at Sherlock sitting at the kitchen island.

Sherlock was staring at him with a shy, nervous gaze. "I…" He closed his mouth, wringing his hands in front of him. "I would like some tea, too."

The voice had barely been above a whisper, but it was music to John's ears all the same. He hadn't heard it in over a year, and he had started to fear he would never hear it again.

John smiled at his friend. "Sure. I'll fix you a cuppa."

A smile appeared on Sherlock's face, and he nodded. John looked at Greg, and they shared a smile. John went back to his preparations, and before long, he was setting a cup of tea in front of Sherlock.

"Thanks," said Sherlock quietly.

"You're welcome," said John, relishing the rare moment that Sherlock thanked him for anything.

Greg walked over to the island, a plate of biscuits in his hand. "There we go. Have as many as you want."

"Thanks, Geoff," Sherlock softly replied.

John let out a loud laugh as Greg did as well. Alarmed by the sudden outburst, Sherlock jumped and shrunk in on himself.

"No, no," said John, fighting the laughter back as much as he could. "We're sorry, Sherlock. It's just that you called him Geoff, and his name is Greg."

"You never could get my name right," Greg told him with a gentle smile.

"We're just very, very happy to see that you're still you," John tried to explain. "Does that make sense?"

Relaxing a bit, Sherlock nodded. "I never got his name right?"

John shook his head. "Not once."

"You would call me all sorts of things," said Greg. "Garret, George, Gavin—"

"Glen," said John.

"Gabe," said Greg.

"Don't forget Gil," said John.

"Oh, and my personal favorite: Gustav," said Greg with a smile. "Not sure where you got that one."

Sherlock smiled.

"There was a pool going round at the Yard on how many names you could come up with," said Greg. He looked at John. "I think Dimmock won."

Sherlock laughed a little before venturing a question in a small voice. "Has my memory always been bad?"

John took his cup of tea and sat next to Sherlock. "It depends on who you ask. You had a mind for facts and memories. It was near perfect recall. The only issue was that anything you deemed unimportant, you would delete."

Sherlock frowned.

John shrugged. "Your own words. You referred to your brain as a hard drive."

Sherlock looked down at the counter with his frown.

"Yeah, it's strange," said John. "But it worked for you. It's what made you…you. And that was just fine with us."

"So…" began Sherlock, still frowning at the table, "I decided that my life was unimportant?"

It took John a moment to understand, but when he did, he reached forward and covered Sherlock's hand with his own. "No, you didn't. I think you compartmentalized it to help you deal with what was happening to you. It's still in there." He motioned over to Greg. "Obviously."

Sherlock nodded and picked up his tea, taking a drink from it.

"Hey," said John gently, "is it all right if I ask you a question?"

Sherlock looked up at him and nodded.

"Do you remember Molly?" John asked him.

Sherlock frowned a little.

"You're so calm around her, more than you were around any of us," John explained. "I just wondered what it was about her that doesn't…you know, scare you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Don't know. I just get this feeling around her. It's…" he struggled with words for a moment before looking down at the table, "I can't explain it."

"It's all right," John told him. "You don't have to. Thanks for telling me."

Sherlock nodded and took another drink of his tea.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" asked John. He glanced at Greg. "That _we_ can do for you?"

Sherlock frowned at him.

"Even if it is just listening," John stated.

Still, the frown remained.

"If you want to talk," John clarified. "Sometimes, it helps people to talk."

A nervous look entered Sherlock's eyes.

"But you don't have to," John quickly told him. "Just that…whenever you're ready…we're here."

Sherlock visibly relaxed. "Thanks."

With that, John and Greg started up a conversation to ease Sherlock's tension with having to talk.

The conversation about Sherlock's captivity would not come back around for another four days. And not in a way anyone expected.

* * *

"And the coroner put time of death at twelve hours," said Molly as the four of them lounged in the sitting room, "when clearly it was—"

"Thirty-six," Sherlock interrupted.

The three of them looked over at him where he saw next to John on the sofa.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times and looked down at his legs with a frown. He glanced over at John. "How did I know that?"

John's mouth tugged at the corner in the threat of a smirk, glancing at Greg. "Isn't that usually my line?"

Greg and Molly chuckled as Sherlock glanced between them all.

John looked back at him. "Sorry, it's just that I'm usually the one left wondering where you got all your deductions from. You were a detective. Well, you **are** a detective."

Sherlock looked at Greg. "Like you?"

Greg shook his head. "You were in a class all your own. You only _consulted_ with Scotland Yard."

"Consulted?" asked Sherlock. "Like a private detective?" He looked down at his hands. "No, the police don't go to private detectives."

John smiled. "No, they don't. You called yourself a consulting detective."

"Was I any good?" asked Sherlock.

"Very good," said Molly. "You became something of a celebrity near the end."

A grimace of disgust came over Sherlock's face for a brief moment.

"Yeah, that's exactly how you felt about it before," said John.

Sherlock then frowned and looked up at Molly again. "What do you mean, 'near the end'?"

Molly tensed, looking at the others before answering. "There were circumstances that forced you to fake your death. You were supposed to track down this criminal network, but then…" Tears formed in her eyes, and she appeared to be too choked up to continue.

"That was when you were taken to that place," John gently told him. "They left enough evidence to make the few people who knew you were still alive believe you had been killed. If it wasn't for some inside help two weeks ago, we would still think you were dead."

John was astonished when Sherlock's jaw slowly dropped and his eyes widened. "Sherlock?"

"That's why no one came for me?" Sherlock asked in a small, dazed voice.

John frowned. "What?"

"I was trapped there for a year," Sherlock went on quietly. "You didn't come for me that whole time. I thought—" His voice cut off as he tried to blink away tears.

John's eyes widened as he realized what Sherlock must have been thinking the last couple weeks: if these people were my friends, why didn't they rescue me sooner? "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. We should have explained sooner."

"You…" began Sherlock, the tears starting to fall slowly down his face, "you all really didn't know?"

"Of course not," Molly told him, getting to her feet and kneeling in front of him. "We would've gotten to you the second we knew. We would never abandon you, Sherlock."

Greg had stood to kneel next to the sofa. "Never, mate. We're so sorry you had to go through all that."

"Every day, I hoped something would stop it," muttered Sherlock in a voice that was growing slightly louder and faster as he went, "that someone would find me, that they would leave me for dead—anything but the constant beatings—"

Tears filled Molly's eyes as she squeezed Sherlock's knee for support.

"—and no one came," gasped Sherlock, practically crying in earnest. "Only them. The broken bones, the knives, the burns, the sleep deprivation—it never stopped! It never once stopped, and no one came!"

Molly couldn't stand it any longer. She pushed to her feet and pulled Sherlock into her arms as she sat next to him. John eased up from the sofa and took Molly's place in front of it. Sherlock fell into Molly's embrace, wrapping his own arms around her, his cast held awkwardly against her back. He cried into her shoulder as John placed his hand up onto Sherlock's shoulder and Greg placed his hand onto the other shoulder. It wasn't much, but Molly was doing more than enough for all three of them.

"I wish so much that I had known," said Molly, crying herself. "I would have never left you there a second longer. I'm so sorry."

Sherlock's grip on her tightened.

"I will never let this happen to you again," Molly told him.

"Neither will we," John said as Greg nodded. "You can count on that."

It took several long minutes before Sherlock calmed enough to pull away from Molly.

Molly smiled at him, reaching up to swipe at his tears with her thumbs. "There. That's better."

Sherlock gave her a smile, seeming to be much more relaxed than he had ever been since he was rescued. Then, much to John's surprise, Molly leaned forward and placed a quick kiss to Sherlock's brow.

"Feel better?" Molly asked him.

Sherlock nodded, taking a deep, cleansing breath. "Much."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

After Sherlock's breakthrough, they noticed an ease settle into him. He was much more comfortable now that he had resolved that internal conflict of whether or not he could really trust them. He was also starting to talk more and show interest in mystery novels and movies, trying to solve them before the end (and most of the time, he did).

It was only two days later that they saw a break in Sherlock's improved mood.

John walked in the front door and made his way to the kitchen, depositing the shopping on the island. He had hardly put away the things in the first bag when Greg came in.

"John," he said as he grabbed some items to help, "I think you need to talk to him. I've tried, but he won't talk to me."

John frowned as he grew concerned. "What happened?"

"I don't know," said Greg. "He went up to his room to read or something; he was perfectly fine all morning. I called up to him to tell him lunch was ready, and he never came down. I went up to check on him, and he was lying in bed. He wouldn't talk to me."

"All right, I'll try," said John, abandoning Greg to the shopping and heading for the stairs.

When he opened the door to Sherlock's room, he saw Sherlock lying on top of the covers, turned away from the door. John walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Greg tells me you skipped lunch," John began. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

Sherlock didn't respond or move.

"You know, if you share what's bothering you, I can probably help," John told him. "That's what friends do."

Sherlock eventually rolled over slightly so he could see John. The look in Sherlock's eyes was so miserable that John had to wonder if he was finally deciding to really face what had happened to him.

"I may not be the best at advice, but I can help you carry the pain," John told him.

Sherlock stared at him for a while before he put his hand under the pillow and pulled a computer tablet out. He powered it up and typed something on it before turning to face John and holding it out. John frowned as he took hold of the tablet; it was showing the webpage for his blog.

"Is all that true?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up at him, not quite sure yet why this had upset him. "Yes."

Sherlock's head dropped, and John glanced down at the tablet. Why had this gotten to him like this? While it was true that they hadn't told Sherlock too much about his detective work yet in an effort not to throw everything on him at once, suddenly stumbling onto John's blog should not have caused depression like this. John outlined Sherlock's deductive abilities in his blog—he praised them! Why wouldn't Sherlock want to know how amazing he had been?

"Then why can't I remember?" asked Sherlock.

John looked up at him.

Sherlock raised his head, his eyes red. "If I was this great of a detective, why can't I get my memories back?"

John's jaw dropped slightly in understanding, and he put the tablet aside on the bed.

"If I could take one look at a crime scene and deduce who the killer was, why am I still like this?" Sherlock asked as his eyes filled with tears.

John reached forward and pulled Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock sniffled in his ear a bit as John held him.

"You are not weak, Sherlock," John told him after a moment.

Sherlock began shaking his head over John's shoulder.

"You aren't," John insisted. He paused for a moment, summoning up his courage. "There's something I never told you about, even before you went away."

Sherlock sniffled a little before pulling back to look at him.

"When I was in Afghanistan, I was captured by insurgents," John told him.

Sherlock paused, surprise warring with confusion in his frown.

"The rest of my team had been killed by an attack on our convoy," John began, trying to push down his discomfort at the memories this was about to dredge up. "I thought I was going to be next, but when I woke up, I was in a cell inside a cave. They, um…" he took a deep breath that rattled in his throat, "they beat me…burned me…tortured me any way they could think of." He stopped as tears filled his eyes. "I was there for three months…and they didn't stop once."

Sherlock stared at him in shock as John wiped a few tears away.

"That's actually how I got back to London," said John. "They shot me in the shoulder, and because I didn't have proper medical attention, it ruined my nerves. My career in the army was over after I was rescued." He wiped away another tear as he took a calming breath. "I never told anyone that before because I was ashamed of the fact that I disconnected myself from everything. Not knowing if I would ever get out, I chose to forget."

Sherlock's jaw dropped slightly.

"I was held captive for three months and was about to lose my mind," said John. "But _you_ were held captive for a _year_. In order to help you deal with the daily physical pain, you shut your memories up to avoid the emotional pain, just as I did. The difference is, I was a wreck after I was rescued. I was traumatized for weeks; I wouldn't let anyone near me, I wouldn't eat, I wouldn't talk. I even came back to London with a psychosomatic limp. But you…"

Tears started to fill Sherlock's eyes.

"Do you have any idea how strong you are, Sherlock?" said John, leaning forward and placing his hands on his friend's shoulders. "You have decided to trust us time and time again, starting with letting me look at your broken arm that night. You are becoming more and more yourself while I was still fighting off every doctor they sent my way."

Sherlock blinked a few times as the tears threatened to fall.

"You have been through something most people can only imagine," John told him. "It's okay to let your mind do whatever it needs to, to deal with it."

Sherlock nodded slightly, his throat working as a single tear fell.

"It's okay to think it's not fair," said John. "It's okay to hate them. It's okay to shut it all out until you've dealt with it." He lowered his head a little, making sure he had Sherlock's attention. "It's okay to cry like you're never going to stop."

And at long last, that impenetrable wall collapsed, and Sherlock began crying in earnest. John pulled him into his arms, and Sherlock's body shook as he let it all out. John held him tight, whispering soothing words as his own memories overwhelmed him. He had never had a friend to help him back to sanity; he'd had to do it all by himself. But Sherlock didn't have to go through this alone. John would be here as long as it took.

* * *

John looked up at Sherlock in surprise. "You've solved it? We've barely started the game."

"Well, I've solved it," said Sherlock. "At least, I think I have."

John sighed, wanting the game to last longer but also wanting to encourage Sherlock's interest in solving mysteries. "All right." He snatched up the small envelope from the Cluedo board and pulled the cards out: Mrs. White, Conservatory, Revolver. "What's the answer?"

"Dr. Black committed suicide in the Conservatory with a revolver," said Sherlock.

John closed his eyes. _Oh, not again._ "Sorry, mate." He opened his eyes and turned the suspect card around to show him.

Sherlock frowned. "But it wasn't her."

John sighed, tossing the cards to the tabletop. "Why not?"

"Mrs. White is the maid," Sherlock explained. "Dr. Black died shortly after dinner, which means Mrs. White was in the kitchen with the cook, cleaning up. She couldn't have done it."

Greg laughed. "You're thinking this through much too hard."

"Isn't that the point?" argued Sherlock. "It's a murder mystery."

"No, it's a game," said John. "It has set instructions for how to play it, and that's not it. You're supposed to rule things out as you go to see which cards are missing. You don't solve the actual murder."

"Well, that's just process of elimination," complained Sherlock. "That's no fun. Why can't we do it this way?"

"Because it's not possible for the victim to have done it," John argued.

"It's the only possible solution," Sherlock argued back.

"It's not in the rules," said John.

"Then the rules are wrong," said Sherlock with a shrug.

The familiarity of their words washed over him, and John found himself suddenly laughing.

Sherlock frowned, not seeing the humor in it. "What?"

John glanced at Greg and then back at Sherlock. "We've actually already had this argument before."

"Did I win?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"I believe it was a draw."

"Then why did you suggest this game if you knew I would react like this?"

"I don't know. Nostalgia, I guess."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "You weren't testing me, were you?"

"No," John answered. "Just trying to have some fun."

Sherlock nodded and looked back at the board. "Fine, let's start again. I'll keep to the rules."

* * *

John stepped out of the house towards the car in the drive. "Molly, hey! What are you doing here this early?"

"Well, I called Greg last night, and he mentioned he was staying the night in London to catch up on his case load, and I asked if he would take me back with him in the morning," Molly explained. "You think Sherlock would mind if I stayed for a few days?"

"Actually, I think he might like that," John told her as Greg stepped up to them with Molly's bag and a small tote. "He's really warmed up to you." He took Molly's bag from Greg, nodding at the tote. "Big case load?"

"Actually, these are for Sherlock," Greg replied. "Some old cases that are already solved so we can tell if he's right or not."

"Oh, brilliant," John told him. "He'll love that." He started toward the front door. "Come on in. I was just about to make breakfast."

"Oh, good, I'm starving!" said Molly.

John stepped through the door, heading for the stairs. "Come on. Pick any room you want."

After John had settled Molly into a room, he stopped by Sherlock's room, knocking on the door. "Sherlock?"

When no answer came, John eased the door open and heard running water coming through the open bathroom door. As he entered, the water shut off. John rounded the bed and found Sherlock at the bathroom sink, dressed in one of his suits. John froze in his steps, stunned. Sherlock looked almost normal—apart from the fact that he was awkwardly brushing his teeth with his non-dominant left hand as the casted right arm rested on the counter, the sleeve of his navy dress shirt rolled up to the top of it.

Sherlock spotted John in the mirror, and he frowned at the look on his face. He quickly finished and cleaned his mouth out before turning towards him. "What is it?"

"You're…" John began, unable to shake the eerie feeling that had gripped him. He glanced down at Sherlock's clothes.

Sherlock followed his gaze, placing his hand on the shirt as he looked back at John. "Oh, sorry, was this your suit?"

And just like that, the spell was broken. John smiled and shook his head. "No, that is most definitely yours. It's just… For a moment there, you seemed so much like your old self."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "I wore suits a lot?"

"Only whenever you left the flat," John told him. He then cocked his head a little to the side. "Except for once."

"Once?" asked Sherlock, emerging from the bathroom. "What did I wear instead?"

"A sheet," John replied with a smile. He then laughed at Sherlock's confused frown. "Long story."

"Did I not own other clothes?" Sherlock asked as they headed for the hall.

"You just preferred your designer suits," said John.

"And let's not forget your Belstaff," Molly chimed in as she joined them in the hall.

Sherlock frowned at her as she stepped up next to him. "Belstaff? Aren't those expensive?"

John looked over at him. "Your brother set us up in a miniature mansion as a safehouse, and you want to know how you afforded a Belstaff coat?"

Sherlock gave a grimace as he looked at their luxurious surroundings. "You're right. That _was_ a stupid question."

Molly and John both laughed as they started descending the stairs.

"Don't get me wrong," John went on. "It's not like you're filthy rich. Just wealthy enough that I wondered many times why you needed a flatmate."

"Well, I did apparently refuse money for cases many times, so that might explain a lot," muttered Sherlock.

John halted on the stairs as the other two continued another step or two before turning back to him.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"How did you know about that?" asked John.

"Well, I read all your blog entries the other day," Sherlock explained. "What did you call it? 'The Blind Banker'? You had to take the check from the bank because I wouldn't."

John was now staring at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"John, what is it?" asked Molly.

"That wasn't in the blog," John told them.

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The fact that you were too stubborn to accept money from Sebastian? I never put that in the blog."

Sherlock's eyes now widened as well.

Molly looked up at him. "How did you know?"

"I don't know," said Sherlock, stunned. "It was just there."

"Have you remembered anything else?" asked John.

"How should I know?" countered Sherlock.

"I suggest we sit down after breakfast and go back through John's blog," said Molly. "We'll see if you remember anything extra that isn't in it."

John nodded. "That sounds like a good idea."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven

It turned out that Sherlock did remember several things outside of the blog, but nothing incredibly important; just small details. John would read through a sentence and start moving onto the next one, and Sherlock would interrupt ("Wait, I remember a yellow smiley face. Why?" "What about the boyfriend? Didn't Molly have a gay boyfriend on that case? Is that important?").

Another three days went by, though, and nothing more jogged itself loose. Although, Sherlock did seem content to occupy his time with the old cases. And it seemed to be having a positive effect on the detective.

"I've got it," said Sherlock as he walked into the kitchen with a case file in hand. "The tie was a dead giveaway."

"For?" asked Greg with a smile.

"The chauffeur," said Sherlock. "Obviously." He opened the file to look through it once more.

John looked over at Greg with a fond smile. "Obviously."

Sherlock dropped the file on the counter in front of Greg. "Do you have another?"

"Sorry, that was the last one," Greg told him.

"But I'm bored," Sherlock replied.

John's smile widened at the familiar situation. "Try some more books."

"Those aren't the same," Sherlock nearly whined. "The author only gives the clues he wants you to have so no one figures out the ending too soon. It's nothing at all like real crime-solving."

Greg shrugged. "Sorry."

Sherlock huffed. "You're useless." He turned and marched out of the kitchen.

John and Greg laughed as they watched their friend storm off toward the front door.

"Should we go after him?" Greg asked as Sherlock went outside.

"Molly's out there; he's fine," John told him.

* * *

Molly glanced up from her book as the front door opened and Sherlock emerged from the house. "Hey. Did you need something?"

"A case," pouted Sherlock as he marched over to the bench where she was sitting and plopped down next to her. "I'm bored."

Molly set her book aside and stood, holding her hand out. "Come on."

Sherlock frowned up at her.

"I'm offering you something to do," Molly told him. "Are you really going to turn it down?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached up with his left hand, grasping onto hers and standing. He followed along next to her as she led him around the back of the house. "I know that you all don't want to tell me too much so you know for sure if a memory comes back, but…how did we meet?"

Molly glanced up at him with a frown. "You really want to know that?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked away from her. "Well, I know how I met John from the blog, and Greg told me the other day about the case that we met each other on. I just…wondered…" He looked down at his feet awkwardly.

Molly smiled and looked out at the forest they were headed towards. "It was about five months before you met John. I had just been hired as a pathologist at Bart's. It was my second day, and you just came barging in, barking orders and demanding I assist you with your experiments."

"Experiments?" asked Sherlock.

"It's one of the ways you occupy your time. Sometimes, it's just an idea you had, but most of the time, it's to help you gather data for solving future cases. Like, erm…" Molly gave a soft huff of a laugh, "flogging a corpse with a riding crop to find out how long after death a body can bruise."

Sherlock smiled a little. "You have a different sense of humor than most people, don't you?"

Molly nodded. "A bit. The other children thought I was weird."

"So, the day we met," Sherlock nudged.

"You were barking orders and being quite rude," said Molly. "So, I told you off." She gave a nostalgic smile. "I think that was the first time someone did that to you. You had the most stunned look on your face."

Sherlock winced a little. "Sorry I was such an arse."

"Oh, you weren't being an arse. It was a test."

Sherlock frowned down at her as they reached the trees.

"You despise people that just go along with whatever you say," Molly explained. "You prefer someone with a spine, someone you can argue with and bounce ideas off of to help you get your deductions. So, you test people when you meet them. A lot of people don't pass. I did."

"Did I tell you all this?"

"Not until more recently," said Molly. "But at the time, after you immediately calmed down and went about your business, I had my suspicions." She spotted the hedge she was looking for. "We're here." She let go of his hand and moved towards the hedge, moving a tree branch out of the way. "There."

Sherlock leaned over and followed her gaze. "A bee hive?"

"Oh, yeah," said Molly. "You find them fascinating. And, I have to admit, they are interesting. The societal structure and hive mind of a colony is remarkable." She glanced over at Sherlock to see him staring at her in intrigue.

He instantly looked back at the hive, clearing his throat and frowning. Molly blushed and looked down at the hive with a smile.

* * *

John glanced up as the front door opened and then closed, and then Sherlock and Molly entered the sitting room.

"How in the world did you manage to keep him occupied for the last five hours?" John asked Molly.

Sherlock frowned. "We were out there for five hours?"

"Yeah," said John. "What were you doing?"

"Watching a bee hive, cataloguing animal tracks," said Molly. "Nothing big." She stifled a yawn. "But now, I'm exhausted. See you all tomorrow."

"Night, Molly," John called as she turned and headed up the stairs.

John glanced down at the newspaper he was reading before he looked up to see Sherlock watching Molly ascend the stairs. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock didn't respond for several moments, and then he came into the sitting room, settling down across from him. "Were Molly and I dating?"

John frowned. "What?"

"Molly and I," Sherlock repeated. "Were we dating?"

John set his paper aside and leaned forward, his elbows on his legs. "Okay, walk me through this."

"I think I remember having feelings for her, or she had feelings for me, or something," said Sherlock.

John nodded, his frown easing. "Oh. Yeah, she had feelings for you, but you weren't dating. You're not interested in that sort of thing." He glanced over towards the fireplace. "How did you put it?" He looked back at his friend. "'Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side,' or something like that. You appalled romantic relationships."

Sherlock frowned, his eyes tracking away. "Are you sure? I could swear…"

"Trust me, you would never date," said John. "Anyone."

Sherlock looked back at him. "Did I mind that?"

"Not at all," John assured him. "You were perfectly happy the way things were. Although, if you ask me, you could maybe use a woman's touch."

Sherlock nodded before standing and heading towards the library.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight

"How is my brother doing?" Mycroft asked as he drank his tea in the sitting room.

"Really well, actually," John told him. "He's come farther than I expected in a month."

"Considering your own experience, you mean," said Mycroft.

John's eyes shot up to him as his cup froze halfway to his mouth.

"I work for the British government, John," Mycroft told him in slight exasperation. "I looked through your records the night you first met my brother."

John gave a little smirk. "Why am I surprised?" He took a drink of his tea.

"It's one of the reasons why I didn't try to pay you to leave London," said Mycroft.

"No, you only tried to pay me to spy on your brother."

"You and I both know that was a test. You passed. Congratulations. Not many have."

John smirked again as he drank his tea.

"So, Sherlock has done nothing out of the ordinary, given the circumstances?" asked Mycroft.

John shook his head. "Not really." He shrugged after a moment. "Well, he did ask me if he and Molly had been in a relationship, but that's about it."

Mycroft made no move whatsoever. He only stared at John. "Really."

"Yeah, I think he got a couple things mixed up," said John. "I told him it was only Molly that felt that way."

Mycroft stared at him for another moment and then nodded. "Has he had any other…mix-ups?"

"No, not really," John replied. "But then again, he doesn't really comprehend emotions, so it's understandable."

Mycroft just kept staring at him. "Yes, perfectly understandable."

John frowned as Mycroft's constant stare started to get under his skin.

Mycroft broke his stare and set his tea down. "Well, I must be off. A country to run and whatnot." He stood, turning to grab his coat.

"You know, it might help Sherlock if his brother actually stayed and visited," said John.

"Trust me, John," said Mycroft as he turned back towards him, "it wouldn't." He then walked out of the sitting room towards the front door.

John watched him go before giving a sigh. "You're probably right."

* * *

John watched as Sherlock let his mother hug him one last time before she and her husband went out the front door. Instantly, Sherlock's indulgent smile dropped, and he turned and stropped off towards the study.

John smiled. "Problem?"

Sherlock turned back around. "She's suffocating. All she wants to do is hug me and cry over how her youngest son is back. I understand she's glad I'm not dead anymore, but can't she control herself?"

John laughed. "Now, that sounds like the Sherlock I know."

Sherlock sighed, pausing. "I'm really _not_ into sentiment, am I?"

"Told you," said John.

Sherlock turned and made his way to the study.

John followed behind him. "What are you working on in here, anyway?"

Sherlock moved around a desk where a few chemistry items were set up: a Petri dish, beakers, pipettes and chemicals. "I'm testing the reaction of bromine with human saliva. Nothing exciting so far."

"And what prompted this?"

"Molly told me the other day how experiments helped distract me," Sherlock explained, looking down at the Petri dish. "Thought I'd give it a shot."

"And?" asked John in interest.

"And I'm certain it would work if I had my equipment from 221B," muttered Sherlock. "As of now, there's not many experiments I can do with—"

"What did you say?" John interrupted, holding his hand out to him. "221B?"

Sherlock had looked up at him with a frown. "Yes."

John smiled, dropping his hand. "I never put our address on the blog."

Sherlock blinked a couple times. "No…you didn't, did you?"

"You remember the street name?" asked John, the hope barely disguised.

Sherlock's eyes tracked off to the wall, thinking. _221B…_ In the next moment, his own voice seemed to echo in his head.

" _The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."_

Sherlock looked up at John. "Baker Street."

John smiled. "Good! That's great! Do you remember anything else?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, and he could swear he heard violin music, but the next second, it was gone. He looked up at John, shaking his head sadly.

"That's all right," John told him. "Clearly, it's all coming back. It'll just take time."

Sherlock nodded and looked back down at his experiment.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his bedroom, occupying his time with reading. Ever since Molly left a few days ago, things had become boring again. He so wanted his memory to come back so he could go back to Baker Street and solve cases. Mycroft had said that he had given evidence to Lestrade so he could start clearing his name, but Sherlock didn't know how much more he could entertain himself here before he went crazy. Was he usually like this?

Sherlock flipped to the next page of the book he was reading, finishing the paragraph. "It had to be a primate of some kind." He flipped a couple pages to get to the last couple paragraphs. He nodded. "An orangutan. Obvious." He tossed the Edgar Allen Poe short story compilation to the foot of the bed and reached for the next book.

"— _Sebastian Moran—"_

Sherlock's head snapped up to look at the news report he'd had on in the background on the television. It was showing a breaking news story with an old army photo next to the anchorwoman labeled "Moran at Large."

"— _and theft—has been spotted this evening—"_ the anchorwoman continued.

 _Sebastian Moran, why do I know that name?_

Sherlock grabbed the remote and rewound the news footage, pressing play.

"— _has been rescheduled for this Tuesday the twelfth,"_ said the anchorwoman. The photo of Moran appeared on the screen. _"And in other news, Sebastian Moran—wanted for his suspected involvement in multiple counts of murder, kidnapping and theft—has been spotted this evening just north of London."_

Sherlock frowned. _That's not right. Why? Why isn't it right?_

" _Citizens are advised not to approach Moran but to dial 999,"_ said the anchorwoman. _"Moran is considered to be extremely dangerous."_

 _If he's in London, then we're all in danger. Why? What can't I remember? Why are we in danger?_

 _Because he knows._

Sherlock's eyes widened as it all came back to him: the cases, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, Moriarty, Moran. And if Sebastian Moran was back in London, that meant he knew Sherlock was alive.

The television switched off as the lights all went out.

 _John!_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Nine

John frowned as he looked up at the lamp on the table next to the sofa. He looked over into the foyer to see that those lights were off, too. In fact, everywhere he looked, there wasn't a single electrical device that was on. But there wasn't a storm or any other circumstance that would cause the power to go out.

 _Something's wrong…_

John put down the book he had been reading, his body tensing as he listened for anything out of place. He stood and moved slowly towards the door, looking around the room. He suddenly heard footsteps pounding down the stairs and realized.

 _Sherlock._

He had probably freaked out when the power had gone out. Despite all the progress he had made, he was still unnerved by the dark. And no wonder: there had been no windows in his cell.

John moved towards the doorway when Sherlock appeared there.

"Down!" yelled Sherlock as he rushed forward and pushed John down behind the sofa.

Just as he did, a barrage of bullets slammed into the far wall, following their trail to the sofa. The bullets tore into the sofa as they crouched behind it.

John felt his adrenaline surge as the memories of Afghanistan and their more dangerous cases came forth. "What's happening?"

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock told him. "Moriarty's second-in-command. He's figured out that I'm not dead, so he's come to uphold Moriarty's end of the bargain."

"What bargain?" asked John, wishing he had his gun on him.

"I kill myself, and you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson get to live," Sherlock explained, holding out a pistol. "You're welcome."

John took the gun. "Thanks." He looked down to check the magazine before it fully registered. His head snapped up to stare at his friend. "Sherlock…"

"What?" asked Sherlock as he looked back and forth around the room.

"You're back…" said John, a smile stretching across his face.

Sherlock looked over at him for a moment and then matched his smile. "I am, but maybe we could celebrate that fact when we're no longer in danger."

John looked down at the gun, checking the magazine. "That's never stopped us before." He slid the magazine back in and looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled. "That's true." He glanced up at the pillows on the sofa and grabbed one. "He's at your twelve o'clock, one hundred yards."

"Ready when you are," said John, pulling the slide back to load the chamber and releasing it.

Sherlock turned to face the sofa and looked back at John, who nodded to him. Sherlock thrust the pillow out from behind his side of the sofa, and it was immediately sprayed with bullets. At the same time, John straightened up, aimed and fired two shots through the shattered windows and ducked back down for cover. They waited a moment, but no more bullets came. The two of them stood and moved out the front door, John at the ready with the gun. They reached the spot where Moran had taken cover and found him lying there, dead, one shot in his neck and one in his forehead.

"Is that him?" asked John.

Sherlock frowned down at the body. "Something's wrong. This was too easy."

John tucked his gun into his waistband. "Easy?"

"Moran was Moriarty's second-in-command," said Sherlock, kneeling next to the body and searching it. "Nearly as cunning as his boss. He wouldn't go after one target and risk being killed. He would have a plan in place."

"You said something about a deal?" asked John, looking at their surroundings.

"Moriarty's way of getting me to jump," Sherlock explained, still searching. "Either I kill myself, or his gunmen kill the three of you. Since Mycroft hasn't called yet, I assume Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are still alive, which means he came here first. Why? Why would he risk getting taken out by a trained soldier before taking care of an inspector or a landlady?"

"Could he be working with other members of Moriarty's network?" asked John.

"He's the last," said Sherlock. "The rest were at the compound where I was being held."

"How did you know he was here?" asked John, crouching down on the other side of the body.

"A news report tonight mentioned he had been spotted in England," said Sherlock, pulling something out of a pocket and looking it over. "Moran left the compound months ago to finish what Moriarty started on a terrorist plot. He would have no reason to abandon that work unless he had heard the compound had fallen and I had been released." He stared at the small black box in his hand for another moment before he pried it open. His eyes widened before he closed it and sprang to his feet, hurrying back towards the house. "Where did Lestrade go?"

John ran after his friend. "The Yard got a tip that a wanted criminal had been spotted…" He slowed as he realized. "Oh, God…"

"That was why Moran let himself be spotted," said Sherlock as he tore through the front door. "To draw Lestrade off. Divide and conquer. His team is walking into a trap."

"Trap?" asked John, grabbing his coat from the peg near the door.

Sherlock turned and held up the little black box. "A detonator. He planned to activate the charges himself, and should he fail here, the bomb would be set up with motion sensors or a timer." He turned and moved to a closet further down the foyer, flinging it open and pulling his Belstaff coat out. "I'll need your phone."

John went back to the sitting room and found his phone on the floor, thankfully free of bullets. He snatched it up and hurried back to the front door, where Sherlock was heading out. He had his scarf knotted around his throat, and if it weren't for the jeans, t-shirt and stiff right arm where the coat sleeve sat snug against the cast, he would have looked just like his old self. John handed over his phone as they headed for the car parked in the drive.

Sherlock dialed and put the phone to his ear, waiting only a moment. "Moran is making his move. Get Mrs. Hudson to safety. I need the location of Lestrade and his team." He immediately hung up as he reached the car, getting into the driver's seat.

John jumped into the passenger seat, and they were off. Ten minutes later, John's phone chimed, and he picked it up to read the text.

"175 Chesire Road," he read off.

Sherlock frowned. "The Keller Barrister Offices? Why would he pick that location? There's people there at all hours of the day."

"Actually, Keller went under about six months ago," said John. "Now, it's just an empty office building."

Twenty minutes, and they were approaching London, Sherlock weaving his way in and out of traffic until they reached the building. Screeching to a halt on the street next to it, they hurried out of the car and into the building.

Sherlock's narrowed eyes took in the layout of the ground floor. "He'll have put it in the basement so that if they escaped the explosion, then the building collapse would kill them. Go find Lestrade. I'll handle the bomb." He turned to start off.

"Wait, wait," said John. " _You'll_ handle the bomb? What, have you got 'How to Defuse a Bomb' tucked away in that mind palace?"

Sherlock thought for a moment and then shrugged. "Maybe." He smirked and then ran off to find the basement access.

John turned away and shook his head. "Idiot."

* * *

Greg moved through the corridor with his officers, his gun at the ready as they silently searched. They reached a corner, and he pressed himself up against the wall next to it. He glanced up at Donovan, who was standing against the opposite wall with several more officers. Donovan nodded, and Greg rounded the corner, aiming his gun into the main area of the office. There were a couple of desks leftover, but otherwise, it was empty. Greg jerked his head to motion to Donovan that it was clear, and they all moved into the room, spreading out.

Greg stepped through the center of the room, his eyes scanning the place. Something didn't feel right. He had made it this far in his career as a detective because he trusted his gut, and right now, his gut was telling him to get out.

Greg turned and started heading towards his right, whispering, "Donovan—"

"Stop!"

Greg turned—as did every other officer—aiming his gun at the source of the noise. John Watson was standing at the corridor that led to the lobby, his hands in the air.

"John?" hissed Greg, lowering his gun and motioning for the others to do the same. "What are you doing here?" He started to take a step towards him.

"Greg, stop!" said John, his eyes wide.

Greg froze, frowning at him.

Moving his gaze to the floor, John made his way to Greg before crouching and shining his torch onto the floor in front of Greg's feet. There in the light about a foot from the floor and six inches from Greg's leg was a tripwire strung between two desks.

Greg's eyes widened as he carefully backed up a few paces, and he sighed, putting his gun in its holster. "Moran isn't here, is he?"

John shook his head and looked around. "Everybody keep your eyes on the floor. There's probably more than one."

"How'd you know?" asked Greg.

"Moran paid us a visit at the house first," John told him. "We're both fine." He lowered his voice. "Sherlock figured it out."

"He did?" asked Greg, surprised. _Sherlock was solving cases now?_

John smiled. "He did."

Donovan finally reached them after checking for wires on her way. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your life," John told her.

"Really?" said Donovan, her hand on her hip.

"Donovan," muttered Greg tiredly.

"We finally had a location on a criminal we've been hunting for months, and you may have just let him get away," Donovan spat at him.

John shook his head. "You haven't learned anything, Donovan. Why would Moran put up tripwires for a bomb if he was in the same building?" His phone went off, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

"Because he's a psychopath," said Donovan. "He's insane."

"That's your go-to explanation for everything, isn't it?" John muttered as he opened the text.

 **Moran hired accomplices.**

 **MH**

The sound of a gun being cocked sounded behind him, and John rolled his eyes.

"Great timing, Mycroft," he said as he turned to see a man in the corridor leading to the lobby pointing a gun at him.

The officers all aimed their guns at him.

"Ah, ah, ah!" said the man, holding up a small device in his other hand. "Dead man's switch. I let go, and the bomb blows. Guns over here." He pointed the gun back at John. "And the phone."

John sighed as he set his mobile on the floor and kicked it over as the Yard officers did the same with their guns. "So, you're Moran's henchman."

"He told me to make sure they stayed in the building until the bomb went off," said the man. "He didn't say anything about visitors. Who are you?"

"No one," John told him, eyeing the detonator. _Come on, Sherlock._

"Well, you chose the wrong time to be a hero," said the man.

John smirked. "Someone once told me there was no such thing as heroes. But maybe we can prove him wrong." He paused, thinking through his words. _If I can just give Sherlock more time…_ "You don't want to do this."

"Don't I?" said the man.

"The only way to make sure we don't leave this building now is to stay here," said John. "What could he have offered you to make you want to die?"

"Plenty," said the man.

"Let me guess," said John. "You have debts? Family? If the bomb kills us, that's all taken care of?"

"Exactly," said the man. "And I've had enough of this." He raised the detonator and released the trigger.

For a moment, John's heart stopped as he waited for the explosion. And after two seconds went by and the man frowned down at the detonator, John let out a sigh of relief.

The man pressed and released the switch again and again, shaking it in frustration. "This can't be possible…"

"By all means, keep going."

John smiled as the man turned towards the dark corridor behind him. Greg frowned at the familiar voice.

"It didn't work the first time, but who knows? Perhaps it fixed itself."

The man glanced back at John and then into the dark corridor. "What's going on?"

"I would think you would know an arrest when you saw one," said the voice from the darkness. "Based on the scar along your left forearm and the tattoo on your chest—"

The man glanced at his arm and the tattoo peeking out from his collar.

"—you've done time on at least two separate occasions, so surely you're familiar with the process of being taken into custody."

Greg smiled at the sound of the old, familiar Sherlock, and he glanced over to Donovan, whose jaw was starting to drop in realization.

"And my colleague was correct in assuming Moran made provisions to ensure your cooperation. In a rather intriguing twist of irony, the case that ends the game with Moriarty shares the same circumstances as the one that started it: you have an estranged family that will receive money upon detonation of that bomb. Unfortunately, Moran is now dead, so your family won't be getting a single pence."

The man dropped the detonator and used both hands to aim the gun into the dark. "Who are you?"

"A ghost, back from the grave to put an end to Moriarty once and for all. And you are the last piece."

"Then I'll take you with me!" yelled the man.

"Oh, I don't think so. I have an advantage you do not."

"What?!" yelled the man, and Greg could see his hands shaking around the gun.

That was when Sherlock stepped into the light with a smirk on his face and said, "Vatican cameos."

Instantly, John drew the gun that he'd been inching his hand towards from his jacket and fired a round, hitting the man in his thigh. The man yelled and collapsed to the ground. Officers converged on him and wrestled the gun away from him.

Sherlock stepped around the man—as the officers stared at him in shock—and walked towards John. "Well, that went perfectly to plan."

John scoffed. "What plan?"

Sherlock affected an offended expression. "I always have a plan."

"No, you don't," muttered John.

"How'd you disarm the bomb?" asked Greg as he walked over.

"There was an off switch," Sherlock answered.

"What?" said John.

"There's always an off switch," said Sherlock. "Terrorists can get into all kinds of trouble unless there's an off switch."

"What the bloody hell?!"

They all looked over to see Donovan marching towards them, her glare fixed on Sherlock.

"You faked it?" exclaimed Donovan. "This whole time, you were alive? I knew you were selfish, but this…"

"I faked my death so that I could hunt down Moran and the rest of Moriarty's network behind the scenes," Sherlock told her.

"Oh, and that worked so well!" said Donovan, waving her hand at the bomber behind him. "Excellent job!"

"It does get quite hard to hunt down a giant criminal network when one has been captured and tortured for a year," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "I do apologize about that."

Donovan had stopped, staring at him and looking not quite sure if she had heard that correctly. "Tortured?"

"Yes, tortured," said John, rounding on her with narrowed eyes. "In exchange for saving mine, Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's lives, twenty of Moriarty's madmen tortured Sherlock nonstop for the past year."

Donovan hesitated a moment, unsure of what to say, before she sneered at John. "That doesn't mean he can just stroll right in like nothing ever happened. What about everything he put us all through? I got demoted because of him!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away from them.

"You got demoted because you wanted revenge for Sherlock upstaging you at crime scenes," John bit off at her.

Sherlock glanced over at the group of officers detaining the bomber to see that they were all watching the exchange (and him) in amazement and shock. The bomber, however, seemed to have slipped their notice.

"So, you jumped at any chance you could to get it," John went on. "Even if that meant persecuting an innocent man."

"Innocent?" exclaimed Donovan.

"John," said Sherlock.

"According to court records, yes," John shot back. "They found Moriarty guilty of framing him not two days ago. Don't you remember?"

"John," Sherlock repeated.

"What?" John said harshly, looking over at him.

"Shoot," Sherlock told him.

John glanced past him to see the bomber well on his way down the corridor. He raised his gun and fired another round off, hitting the bomber in the other leg. The officers broke out of their stupor and re-detained him.

Sherlock rounded back on Donovan. "Seriously? The culprit starts making a getaway right in front of you, and you don't notice? And you wonder why you need me." He turned and made his way from the building.

John looked back at her as she stared after Sherlock with her jaw dropped. "He's got a point, you know." He turned and followed his friend.


	11. Chapter 11

Epilogue

New Scotland Yard officers milled about as they took pictures and statements outside of the old Keller building. Lights from police cars and an ambulance flashed over the scene as people gathered at the police tape, some of them pointing towards the front door of the building where Greg, John and Sherlock stood.

John glanced back at the small crowd. "Looks like your secret's out."

"Yes, only a matter of time before the press turns up," said Sherlock.

John looked back at him. "You ready for that, or should we make a discreet exit?"

"If I don't make a statement, they'll resort to witnesses," said Sherlock. "Donovan would _love_ the chance to give an exclusive interview."

John winced. "Ooh, right."

"So, you're all back to normal," said Greg.

"Since when was I ever normal?" muttered Sherlock. He grimaced in disgust. "Horribly boring."

Greg and John laughed a little.

"But, yes, I am back," said Sherlock. "And perfect timing. I was starting to get bored."

"Oh, God forbid His Royal Highness get bored," mocked John.

"Amnesia boy run out of new things to discover?" laughed Greg.

"Well, you can take the mind out of Sherlock, but you can't take the Sherlock out of the mind," said John with a laugh as Greg joined in. He then glanced over to see Sherlock frowning in confusion at him. "What is it?"

Sherlock shook his head, apparently, completely bewildered. "Why… I can understand your behavior the last few weeks—I was recovering—but now…"

John frowned at him, not really sure what he had done.

"Why aren't you angry?" Sherlock asked.

"About what?" asked John.

"My having lied to you," said Sherlock.

John just stared at him, shaking his head. Why would he be angry over that?

"John, I forced you to watch me kill myself," said Sherlock emphatically. "I had fully intended to keep you in the dark about the whole thing until I had taken down Moriarty's network, which could have taken years. Why are you not angry? Why are you not punishing me?"

John's jaw dropped as he realized what he meant. _Does he really think that I would be angry after all of this?_

"Sherlock…" began John, "you were _tortured_ …for a _year_ …" He shook his head. "Believe me, that's more than punishment enough."

Sherlock stared at his friend, remembering the story John had told him of what he had gone through in Afghanistan. He looked to the ground and took a moment to absorb it all. "Thank you." He looked up at them. "Both of you. For everything."

"No thanks required," Greg told him as John nodded.

"No, really," said Sherlock. "I, erm…I suffered a trauma when I was younger, and…"

John and Greg glanced at each other, both thinking of the lost childhood friend Sherlock's memory had turned into a pet.

"It took a while for me to recover from that," Sherlock finished. "But to go through something like this…" He shook his head. "I don't know where I would be without you." He had directed that last phrase mostly at John, the friend who had been there the whole way.

John looked down at his feet. "Listen, about that…" He squirmed for a moment. "There's something I haven't asked before because it wasn't the right time to bring it up, but…" He glanced over at Greg and back at Sherlock. "When you were in that compound, did…" His eyes dropped from Sherlock's face, not wanting to hear the answer. "I mean, were…" He sighed and opened his mouth to spit it out.

"No," said Sherlock.

John looked up at him. "No?"

"Moriarty may have employed some of the worst scum in England, but it takes a special kind of monster to rape someone," Sherlock told him. "I was not sexually abused."

John released his held breath. "Oh, thank God."

"Small mercies," Sherlock muttered.

"Well, that's…good…" said John, nodding. He then cleared his throat after a moment. "So, Mrs. Hudson get to safety?"

Sherlock nodded once. "Mycroft's men reached her just in time."

"Good," said Greg.

"Sherlock!"

John glanced over to see Molly at the front of the crowd at the police tape. She was being held back by an officer, who was looking over at Greg for orders. Greg lifted his arm to wave her in as John looked back at Sherlock with a frown. For Sherlock had frozen when Molly had called his name. And as Greg waved Molly in, Sherlock turned to look at her, his eyes wide. As the officer lifted the yellow tape so Molly could enter, Molly was already ducking under it and running towards them.

"Molly…" said Sherlock softly. He then started walking swiftly towards her.

John looked at Greg and shared a frown with him before they looked back at their friends. Molly reached Sherlock only a few paces away from them and flung herself into his arms. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her as he planted a passionate kiss on her lips.

John didn't even hear the explosion of cheers, whistles and applause from the spectators beyond the police tape. He was too busy trying to pick his jaw back up off of the ground. He wasn't even able to comprehend what he was seeing. Sherlock and Molly were locked in an embrace, kissing as though they were two lovers who hadn't seen each other in…well, a year.

 _When had this happened?_

John glanced over at Greg, who looked just as dumbstruck as he was.

Sherlock and Molly finally broke apart and hugged each other.

"I missed you so much," Molly told him.

"Me, too," Sherlock replied. "I'm sorry you thought I was dead."

"Don't be," Molly told him, pulling back just enough to look up at him. She placed her hand on the side of his face. "I just wish we had gotten you out of there sooner. The thought of what they did to you…" Tears started falling down her face.

"Molly…" Sherlock said softly, placing both his hands on her head, cradling her face, "I'm here now." He pulled her into a hug. "It's all over now."

John gave them a moment before he cleared his throat. Sherlock looked up at the two of them and then slowly eased away from Molly, giving her a smile as he wiped away her tears. He planted one more kiss to her forehead before he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and steered them both towards their friends.

"So…" said John.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, Molly and I are in a relationship."

"W…" began John. "How… When did this happen?"

Sherlock raised his eyes as they narrowed in thought. "Oh…five hours before the rooftop, was it?" He looked down at Molly next to him.

Molly nodded, blushing under John's and Greg's gazes. "Apparently, it was a long time coming, though." She smiled up at Sherlock.

"This is why you were so calm when Molly visited, isn't it?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded. "Although I had no actual memory of her, there was just something about her that calmed my mind." He smiled at Molly. "And now, I know why." He looked back at John. "Looks like you were wrong, John."

"Wrong about what?" asked Molly as John rolled his eyes.

"He asked me if the two of you had been in a relationship," said John. "He could have sworn he remembered something like that. I told him you weren't."

"Oh, pity," said Molly with a smile. "That would've been the perfect time to surprise you all."

"Oh, I don't know," said Sherlock. "I think it turned out quite perfect."

"So, this is serious between you two?" asked Greg, his eyes still wide.

"You should know by now, Inspector," said Sherlock. "I never do anything halfway."

John chuckled. "True."

Flashes of light reached them, and they all glanced over to see reporters and camera crews pushing to the front of the crowd.

"Is that how you knew?" asked Sherlock.

Molly nodded. "I saw some internet posts that you were here, and I knew you would only be here if you remembered, so…"

Sherlock looked over at John. "I suppose it's time to go be Sherlock Holmes again."

John nodded. "Long time coming."

Sherlock looked down at Molly. "I'll make it quick. Then we can finally go to that dinner I promised." He leaned down and gave Molly another long kiss.

John smiled and let his gaze wander before they stuck on a truly hilarious sight. He chuckled a little.

Sherlock looked over at him with a question in his eyes. "Problem, John?"

John waved his hand to excuse himself. "Sorry. It's just…I think you finally broke them." He gestured past them.

Sherlock and Molly turned to see Donovan and Anderson standing at the ambulance, Donovan looking like she was having a stroke and Anderson looking like he couldn't decide what to be more shocked about: Sherlock Holmes alive or Sherlock Holmes kissing a woman.

Sherlock smiled as he looked back at John. "Mm. Bonus." He looked down at Molly. "Get us a table? I'll meet you in fifteen."

Molly smiled and gave him another kiss before walking away, her fingers lingering on his.

Sherlock watched her go for a minute before looking at John. "Shall we?"

* * *

Sherlock and John made their escape as the officers held the reporters back.

"That went better than I thought it would've," said John.

"Luckily, the wounds on my face have practically healed," said Sherlock.

" _That_ would've made an attractive front page," muttered John. "'Sherlock Holmes: Back From the Dead in Style.'"

Sherlock chuckled as John laughed. After a moment, Sherlock's smile widened a little, and he shook his head as he gave another laugh.

John smiled. "What is it?"

"All that time, people believed me to be dead, and in a way, I was," said Sherlock.

"Yeah…" said John, nodding. "Not a physical death but a mental one." A phrase from an old movie popped into his head, and he chuckled. "A death of a different color."

There was a long pause as they walked.

"That's a good line, John," said Sherlock.

John looked over at him, frowning. "Sorry?"

"I always complain about the romantic drivel in your blog, but that was actually one of your better lines," said Sherlock.

John's frown deepened as he stopped and turned to him. "That wasn't my line, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave a frown of his own. "It wasn't?"

"No," said John. "Horse of a different color…"

Sherlock's frown persisted.

"Practically made famous by _The Wizard of Oz_ …" continued John.

"Wizard of who?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, never mind," muttered John, turning and walking away from him.

Sherlock caught up after a moment. "Is that part of the ridiculous Harry Potter nonsense?"

"Forget it, Sherlock," John told him as they continued down the road.

* * *

 **THE END**


End file.
